


Complementary

by ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Army, Birth complications, Can you tell I'm an English Lit student?, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I haven't decided yet, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Language of Flowers, Love Letters, Major Character Injury, Maybe - Freeform, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pregnancy complications, RAF - Freeform, Strangers to Lovers, Wartime Romance, Work In Progress, World War II, but I'll get your hopes up anyway, color symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 07:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 76,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff/pseuds/ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff
Summary: Genevieve Hastings is desperate to do more for her country. After hearing horror stories about the last war, she plans to do anything to end the current war as soon as possible. However it comes at great personal cost for those she meets along the way: the boy who recklessly jumped aboard the Moonstone, the pilot who ditched his plane in the Channel, herself.





	1. Recruitment

  She’d passed the interview with the recruitment officer, the medical examination with all the blood tests, the education tests, the physical training and Genevieve was discovered because a soldier thought it would be a great idea to knock down the cubicle door while she was sorting out her period. Now, she had to answer for her lies and inexcusable behaviour in reaction to her being exposed - physically and metaphorically.

 Swinging her legs in a stiff chair, Genevieve looked about the room with casual boredom. She may as well enjoy her surroundings if she was about to be put to the court martial for posing as a man. The office was covered in the patriotic signifiers of a man: Churchill bust, oak furniture, books in a glass case about previous wars, a pipe on the desk, the mounted head of a deer watching ominously over the room.

 The door opened and, out of instinct, Genevieve stood up with her hands behind her back. Clad in a long overcoat and clasping his peaked cap, Commander Clouston paced into his office and gestured for the soldier to take a seat. He laid his cap on the desk as he eased himself back into the chair.

 “So, Gene,” He said chirpily as he picked up his pipe from the desk, “Mind telling me your real name before we begin?”

 “Genevieve Hastings, sir,” The soldier responded.

 Commander Clouston nodded with his lips pouted in concentration as he crushed some tobacco, “Why are you here and not at home?”

 “I can help here better than I can in England. This is where the fight is.”

 “I’m sure you are,” Clouston assured, “But this is no place for a woman.”

 Genevieve frowned, “But it is the place for those boys you accepted. Not even eighteen, I’ll bet? Would you prefer me to be at home, sewing pillowcases for when this is over or here ensuring that it’s over faster?”

 “One person can’t make that much difference.”

 “Imagine thousands of people thinking that same thing and not bothering. Imagine what they could do if they did try.”

 A little put-off by the woman who was clearly more stubborn than him, Clouston switched his questioning methods, “Why didn’t they shave your hair off?”

 “I said it was long for religious reasons. They didn’t press any further.”

 Commander Clouston took a deep breath, questioning the entire Armed Forces – not for the first time.

 “Why did you throw a…” He swallowed, his hand pausing in his pocket as he fumbled with his words instead, “A… used… tampon at Officer Fox?”

 “He was peeping on me while I was on the loo.”

 “That doesn’t excuse you throwing it at him. And your impulsive choices blew your cover.”

 “Pretty sure it was blown anyway, sir. Besides, I thought maybe I could get away with saying I was treating a bullet wound.”

 “Do you think Fox would’ve believed that?”

 “Yes.”

 “Do you think others would’ve believed it?” Clouston struck a match.

 “Yes,” Genevieve repeated, holding back the rest of her comment on the inept intelligence test of the army.

 Clouston nodded, leaning back in his chair as he puffed his pipe, “Well, I think we’re done here.”

 Genevieve frowned again, her fate still unknown, “Am I going to be discharged?”

 “Of course not. Women are being trained the same as men now. We need everyone we’ve got, including you.” Clouston stopped to blow off some smoke like a chimney, “I’ve heard you’re a good shot.”

 Genevieve straightened up with a haughty tug on her standard issue jacket, “I’m a  _great_ shot.”  

 

* * *

  
 

_One year later_

 Dunkirk was a shit show. Four hundred thousand British soldiers marooned in France with no sign of help coming and supplies slowly running out. If that wasn’t pressing enough, the Germans were pushing the literal boundaries of the French allies, closing in on them. Men were shooting themselves with their rifles or drowning themselves every day as hope slipped further from their grasp. The beach was a desert and it was drying up the optimism.

 Paranoia was trickling in to each soldier. It moved at different paces, sure, but still there, in the back of the mind. It gnawed at each person’s sanity with the German aircraft acting as a catalyst. One was currently circling the troops like a vulture. Genevieve was watching it from the pier with Commander Clouston.

 With no sign of the Air Force, Genevieve leant her rifle on the pier’s wooden barrier and knelt before it. Staring down the barrel, clenching then unclenching her fists, she held her nerve until the StuKa Ju flew back around, swinging ungracefully in the air with a long drone.

 Only slightly affected by the siren that shrilled at the beach below, she fired, reloaded and fired again. That time, she knew she’d hit it as a line of smoke marked the plane’s passage. Something as easily fixable as a bullet hole in the left wing caused the aircraft to retreat; it flew back behind enemy lines.

 Genevieve pulled away. That was the first aircraft she’d hit today which was bad since four others had appeared. She was getting rusty. Glancing over at the ship beside the pier, she saw the final stretcher being loaded on board. Unlucky lucky bastard.

 “Come on, Hastings,” Commander Clouston ushered Genevieve away, taking her rifle.

 “Where are we going?” She said tiredly, glancing after the StuKa Ju.

 “You need to get on the ship.” She instantly ducked under his arm, removing it from her back.

 “Why?” Genevieve took a step back, “Get someone else on, one of the soldiers from the beach. Or a stretcher.”

 “You have to get on,” Clouston pressed, “You need to get back home. You’re needed for the next battle.”

 “No more than any other soldier. I stay and I can shoot down other planes.”

 “It’s not a risk worth taking; you could be shot or bombed any time.”

 “If I go, home won’t be there for much longer.”

 “If you stay, home won’t be there for long either. Now go. That’s an order.”

 Grimacing, Genevieve reluctantly followed his instruction, stepping onto the unstable walkway and down onto the ship’s deck. She sent a glance of silent disdain at her Commander but it changed as she swore she heard him say:

 “Come back for us.”  

 The shouts from Dunkirk beach were suddenly more apparent. Countless men cried to be taken home with the ship, begging the chosen few with hoarse voices and broken spirits. Genevieve turned back and heading down the stairs into the belly of the beast. Hit with a wave of sweat and tea, she grabbed a slice of jam on toast and forced it down her throat.

 The feeling of claustrophobia crept up her spine. It was soon joined by the memory of the other ships who had attemtped and failed to leave the Mole. Her stomach was in flux, curdling the half-stale bread slice into mush.

 “Sorry, you can’t go up,” The nurse had an arm across Genevieve’s chest as she reached the door at the top of the stairs.

 “I’m gonna throw up,” She said bluntly. Automatically, the nurse opened the door and allowed Genevieve passage. The door slammed shut behind her but she didn’t care. The salt air was almost as bad as the sweat but at least it was fresh.

 The screams from the beach faded as the ship sailed away into the night.  Dunkirk disappeared, dipping down into the horizon, into the dusk. Genevieve wasn’t sure how much time had passed but she wasn’t moved from her spot by any of the sailors who walked past. Maybe they knew her reason.

 After what seemed like hours had passed, with her head back against a steel wall, she closed her eyes and allowed herself todrift off.

 “TORPEDO!”

 Genevieve shot up in time to brace for impact. The ship lurched to the right, throwing the occupants of its belly against the walls. Water exploded into the bowels; soldiers were tossed over the side of the boat and into the black water below. Genevieve grasped the chain link barrier, feeling the floor beneath her slide upwards with the shift in gravity.

 “Abandon ship!”

 Another torpedo thwacked into the bow of the ship, tipping it forwards. Tugging her body upwards, Genevieve scrambled with numb hands to get to the stern. The propeller rose out of the water as she climbed up the chains like a ladder. She heard men jumping off the boat into the freezing water, grabbing onto random debris to keep themselves afloat.

 Water exploded to Genevieve’s left, firing droplets directly into her ear and clogging it with her pounding heartbeat. The murky depths rose closer to her feet as she desperately tried to get away. Her limbs weren’t responding properly, numb from the cold and fear. But the chain links turned to solid stable metal and she knew, in the darkness, she’d found the highest point.

 Another torpedo in the seemingly endless barrage smashed into the already sinking ship, blowing men out of the water. They collided with the distorted surf. The stern of the ship groaned and swayed. Genevieve clung onto the bar, her arms screamed as they were pushed to their limits. She was on her front, her legs kicking, scrabbling to stay out of the water.  

 She heard a hollow clatter from inside the ship. Fists banged against the hull. Screwing up her eyes, Genevieve looped her arms through the bars and cried until there were no more tears. They just kept banging. Even as the shadow of the U-Boat slinked away, they kept banging. Even with the freezing water, they kept banging. Only when the sun started to come up and Genevieve realised she wasn’t alone atop the stern did the banging cease. It faded to a weak patter. Then to a soft knock. Then finally to a solitary tap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> 1/ This is a series, with chapters varying in length. I have been posting this on my Tumblr account for the past year and I will be continuing to upload the rest of the chapters on here until it's up to date.
> 
> 2/ Since ah dinnae ken Collins’ first name, it will be Jack. So original, I know. This detail and many others about Collins’ life in this fiction are my own interpretation.
> 
> 3/ Commander Bolton (Sir Kenneth Brannagh’s character) was actually Commander James Campbell Clouston but renamed in the film. He saved over 200,000 men at Dunkirk before his boat was hit and, after sending the adjoining boat back to Dunkirk to save the rest of the men, he died of hypothermia in the English Channel. Therefore, out of respect for the family and the man himself, I have changed Bolton to Clouston in this work – and will do so for any other Dunkirk fiction that I write.
> 
> 4/ I will update as often as I can so this won’t end up like that one fic that hasn’t been updated since 2009. But I attend university and will have to go on the occasional hiatus. My apologies in advance.
> 
> 5/ I own nothing except for my original character Genevieve Hastings.
> 
> 6/ In spite of me not owning this film or its characters, please don’t plagiarise, repost or take credit for my work. I worked hard on this. Please don’t put me off posting anything else.
> 
> Thank you for reading this and I hope you enjoy it!


	2. Marooned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a close call with hypothermia and drowning, Genevieve is pretty sure that the Moonstone is just a mirage. Why else would a pleasure yacht be headed to Dunkirk?

 At the helm of his ship, Mr. Dawson peered ahead at the smoky horizon. Shapes were slowly forming, bobbing up and down with the waves. Distant ships, accompanied by thunderous booms, placed one of the shapes into perspective. It was much closer to the Moonstone. And it wasn’t upright.

 The wreck gently swayed, its propeller slowly spinning with the sea spray and the breeze. There was something on top of the helm, curled up and finely balanced to avoid the murky depths.

 Mr. Dawson moved quickly down the Moonstone yacht when the wreck drew closer and he realised what was aboard it. Throttling back, he gestured for Peter to head to the bow. The boy took charge and watched as the Moonstone approaches the wreck. Like headstones in a graveyard, bodies face-down surrounded the overturned hull. Their only movement now was the waves. Crouched on the hull, two soldiers were gripping each other. Reversing the screw, Mr Dawson slowed the Moonstone to a crawl as the two ships came together.

 Peter stared out at the soldiers. Neither made any effort to move at the sight of their rescue. He stepped forward and shouted:

 “Can you swim?”

 Finally, the two soldiers looked up. One of them – a woman - looked startled at the sight of a pleasure boat in the middle of the English Channel while the other didn’t seem fazed. Neither moved.

 “Can you get closer?” Peter looked over at his father.

 Glancing down, Mr. Dawson noticed that the wreck below the water’s surface was dangerously close to colliding with his boat.

 He called back, “Can’t risk it! Take a line, Peter.”

 Eager to help, George grabbed a coiled rope and headed up to the bow. Peter took the rope and prepared to throw it.

 “I’ll throw you a line!”

 One of the soldiers shook the other’s shoulder weakly, trying to get him to move. But he just stared ahead blankly. Peter tossed the line and it hit the water a couple of feet in front of the soldiers. He looked up at them. The woman started to slide down the wreck, her shaking hands patting the metal as she steadied herself.

 The Shivering Soldier refused to move.

 Peter gathered the line then tossed it again. This time, it landed a lot closer. The woman landed in the water and resurfaced, gasping for air. The Shivering Soldier eventually followed her and both grabbed the rope.

 Peter and George reeled them in - with aid from the woman kicking in the water to propel them closer to the Moonstone. She shuddered as she climbed up the stern ladder. Four hands grabbed her shirt and tugged her on board. She collapsed on her back in the well, breathing heavily.

 The Shivering Soldier was too exhausted to make it up the ladder, his pale hands loosely gripping the rope. George and Peter struggled to pull him up but managed to ungracefully get. As soon as he was in the well, the Shivering Soldier pressed himself into the corner, his knees tucked under his chin protectively.

 George went back into the Moonstone and returned with two blankets. The woman sat up and took hers but George had to wrap the other around the Soldier’s shoulders.

 “What’s your names?” Mr Dawson asked as the woman shuffled near the Soldier with her hands grasping the blanket so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

 “Genevieve Hastings,” She swallowed in an attempt to sooth the dryness of her throat, “I don’t know his name.”

 Mr. Dawson glanced at the two survivors as he reversed from the wreck the way he came in. Steering wide around the visible portion of the wreck into the open water ahead, he sped up heading again for the dark smoke of Dunkirk.

 “Thank you,” Genevieve said quietly, not sure if she was heard.

 George disappeared back down into the belly of the Moonstone, half expecting the soldiers to follow him into the warm. Instead they huddled together in the corner, still shaking and staring at the deck. Peter kept an eye on the two after they didn’t accept the life jackets.

 Once out of the way of the wreckage, Mr. Dawson took his place back at the helm. Genevieve was slowly taking in her surroundings, the feeling in her fingers working its way back in as George came back on the well.

 “Why don’t you come below - it’s out of the wind,” He leant forward with two cups of something in his hands. Genevieve and the Soldier both shook their heads.

 “Really - it’s warmer,” George persisted, holding one cup out for it to be smacked away by the Shivering Soldier. Genevieve hid a flinch at the metal clattering against the floorboards.

 “Leave him, George,” Mr Dawson glanced over at the boy, “They feel safer on deck. You would too if you’d been bombed.”

 A murmur caught the attention of the Moonstone’s crew. The Shivering Soldier shifted, drawing his knees closer to his body.

 “It was a U-boat,” He repeated.

 “Get some more tea, George,” Peter patted his friend’s shoulder. Looking at the full cup in his hand, George held it out to Genevieve, with more caution than before.

 “Thanks,” Genevieve took the small cup. It burned against her fingertips, the steam rising and heating her face. She took a sip, feeling the drink slide in to her empty stomach. Gulping it down with her hand under her chin, she almost choked on the stuff as it burnt her tongue, breaking her trance.

 “Fuck,” She spluttered, coughing up some of the drink. Then she looked up in shock at George, “Sorry. Too long with the Navy.”

 “It’s alright,” George felt a swell of maturity replacing his discomfort. Adults never swore so freely around him.

 Peter perked up with interest as George disappeared to get the Soldier’s tea, “So you’re a nurse in the Navy then?”

 “Army,” Genevieve remembered to sip her tea this time, “I’m a sniper.”

 “They let girls do that?” Peter’s tone didn’t bare any malice. Just internalised misogyny.

 Too tired to muster up a proper response, Genevieve said, “Yes.”

 “So you’ve killed Nazis?” He pressed.

 “Peter,” Mr Dawson spoke with a tone of warning, “Leave her alone.”

 “Right,” Peter went the same shade as his jumper, “Sorry, Miss Hastings.”

 “Genevieve… it’s ok,” Genevieve turned back to her tea as George re-emerged. As he handed the new brew over to the Soldier, a reverberating boom caught the attention of the two soldiers.

 “Where are we going?” He demanded, standing up for the first time.

 “Dunkirk.” Genevieve shuddered but not with the cold. Another boom resounded down the Channel.

 “No, we’re going to England!” The Soldier panicked. Genevieve curled up tighter away from this, clutching her tea.

 Maintaining a calm demeanour, Mr. Dawson said, “We have to go to Dunkirk first.”

 “I’M NOT GOING BACK!” The Soldier exploded much like the torpedo that landed him in this place, “Look at it! We go there we’ll die!”

 Genevieve sank back down to the floor, wishing she could spare her hands to cover her ears. She watched Mr. Dawson contemplate over his answer as the Soldier adjusted his blanket with a look of finality.

 “I see your point, son,” Mr. Dawson said finally, “Take your tea below and warm up while we plot a course.”

 After considering this compromise, the Shivering Soldier took his blanket and headed down the companionway with great trepidation. Peter took his drink and helped him down the stairs, both disappearing out of Genevieve’s view.

 George took a seat on the side of the boat, staring after the Soldier. With curiosity and attempted adult tactile, he turned to ask Mr. Dawson:

 “Is he a coward, sir?”

 Mr. Dawson looked sharply at George but stayed collected as he answered, “He’s shell-shocked, George. He’s not himself. He may never be himself again.”

 Genevieve’s destination did not sooth her, nor did it fill her with righteous intentions and inspirations. In spite of being rescued, she still felt as though she was floating uselessly in the ocean, without purpose and without hope.


	3. Cows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when things felt like they had hit rock bottom, the passengers of the Moonstone realise that things bought a pick axe and were prepared to dig.

 Dropping her head back against the wooden side, Genevieve watched the clouds about her head. Her blinking was slow with exhaustion. Soon her eyes remained closed to conserve energy. The lapping of the waves rocked her to a place between consciousness and sleep with the only thing keeping her awake being the smell of the tea mingling with sea salt.

 She thought about all the sail boats trundling down to Dunkirk to rescue their sons, brothers, nephews, uncles, fathers, husbands. Not many women there, she found. Most were at home, protecting the motherland in the Homeguard and filling in for the jobs left behind. Like at the farm. Ploughing with the horses, picking apples, mucking out the cows…

 “Bloody cows,” She muttered aloud.

 “Do you want to go downstairs too?” George’s question bought her back down to reality.

 “No, thanks,” Genevieve rubbed her shaking legs, “You’re all nuts.”

 “Really?”

 “I know you’re not gonna turn around.” Genevieve looked the ship’s captain with her blanket clasped in a cape with the other.

 “We have to help,” Peter said semi-accusingly from the companionway.

 “You three in your pullovers and your jumpers, on a pleasure yacht, ready to take on the Germans with nothing but a bunch of life-jackets, tea and a Union flag. How patriotic,” Genevieve let out a short breath – a pathetic excuse for a laugh.

 “We’re not the only ones,” Peter frowned at her tone, “A call went out. There’s hundreds of us going to Dunkirk.”

 “Like I said, nuts,” Genevieve took another sip of her tea, “We’ve come to such things…”

 Mr. Dawson gave a wan smile as Genevieve shuffled back into the edge of the well before lifting herself in the seat. Aside from the occasional boom from across the waters and the pitch smoke on the horizon, it was quite pleasant with the gentle rocking reminiscent of being cradled in someone’s arms. She almost felt relaxed.

 Genevieve felt the planes overhead before she heard it. The rumble filled her ribcage with the vibrations of the Spitfires’ glorious engines, their sound alerting the boat to their presence. In Doppler fashion, the three Spitfires zoomed over the crew’s heads and towards their mutual destination, fading away into the blinding sunlight.

 “Rolls Royce Merlin engines,” Mr. Dawson gazed after the aircrafts, “Sweetest sound you could hear out here.”

 “Yet more patriotism,” Genevieve commented under her breath as the silence - broken by waves – resumed. Peter arose from the bowels again to switch Genevieve’s cup with a refill before disappearing again. The hot drink was having a soporific effect on Genevieve which was the opposite of what she wanted.

 “Is there anything I can do?” She looked up at Mr. Dawson.

 “You can stay there until you feel better. Then you can help me. You look like you’re gonna keel over,” He responded with his eyes still on the line where the sky and sea met.

 “You’re not even looking at me. And I do feel better,” Genevieve stood way too quickly, their vision bubbling over into static which caused her to fall back into her seat, “Fuck… Sorry.”

 “S’alright,” George grinned at the informal language, “I don’t mind.”

 “I’ll keep the curses to a minimum,” Genevieve said respectfully to her host, returning her stare back to the ocean, sipping her new cup of scalding tea. It was the same blend her dad liked. She was never a fan but the reminder was nice. It was always nice, a reminder of home. A reminder of why she was here.

 A muted bang jolted Genevieve in her seat. It was too quiet to be a gunshot or torpedo. It was heard again; the three on deck leant forward with quizzical expressions as Peter appeared from its source.

 “He wants to come out-” His explanation was interjected with more banging, this time accompanied with shouting. Mr. Dawson noticed Genevieve visibly grow stiffer as the banging grew to a crescendo.

 “What did you do? Lock him in?” Peter made a vague gesture, clearly at a loss. “Let him out, for God’s sake!”

 Following his father’s orders, Peter went back to release his unintentional prisoner. The banging had ceased as Mr. Dawson approached the companionway for damage control when the Soldier climbed through the open forward hatch and stood behind Mr. Dawson.

 “You haven’t turned around!”

 Mr. Dawson turned calmly to the Shivering Soldier, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

 “No. We have a job to do.”

 “Job? This is pleasure yacht! You’re weekend sailors, not the blood navy! A man your age-”

 “Men my age dictate this war. Why are we allowed to send our children to fight it?”

 “YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME!” Genevieve flinched at the sudden increase of volume as the Soldier’s shaking grew more volatile.

 “There won’t be any home if we allow thus slaughter across the Channel. There’s no hiding from this,” Mr. Dawson spoke in a tone of finality. The Shivering Soldier didn’t back down, stepping closer into the cabin towards the controls of the Moonstone.

 “What is it you think you can do out there?! On this thing?!”

 “Not just us. The call went out – we won’t be the only ones to answer,” Mr. Dawson turned back to the horizon.

 “You don’t even have guns!” The Soldier leant against the side of the boat, his incredulous tone high-pitched.

 “Did you have a gun?”

 “Course. A rifle - 303.”

 “And your friend? Did she have a gun?”

 “Yes. Yes, she did.” The Soldier turned to Genevieve with an expression of “are you actually going along with this?”. She nodded at Mr. Dawson’s question.

 “Did it help you against the dive bombers? Or the U-boats?”

 The Soldier glared at Mr. Dawson, “You’re an old fool. And you’re going to die if you don’t turn around.” No movement was made that would indicate a retreat, not even at the bombs’ impact growing ever-closer.

 “We’re turning around, now!” The Soldier shouted this time.

 The Soldier stepped closer to Mr. Dawson, screaming at the top of his lungs, “TURN IT AROUND! TURN IT AROUND!”

 He lunged for the wheel. George made the first move, grabbing his shoulder to protect Mr. Dawson but the Soldier smashed his elbow into his face which sent him flying backwards down the companionway. Unable to bear what was happening, Genevieve stood and dashed between in front of the Soldier, the wheel behind her.

 “Sir, please stop,” She said softly – almost like a child - as Peter pulled him away from the wheel, following by example and requesting him to calm down. The Soldier didn’t seem to realise he had just had an outburst, looking at Peter in confusion. Ensuring she was in sight when touching the Soldier’s shoulder, Genevieve guided him back down to the well and handed him back his blanket.

 “George?!” Peter’s panicked call caught her attention. The Soldier eased her back to peer into the cabin. At the foot of the steps, George was sprawled out and was letting out a low whine. Peter was propping a life jacket underneath his head. Genevieve caught sight of the blood.

 “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay,” Peter was repeating like a mantra. Whether he was saying it more for George’s or his own was unknown. It didn’t help either. George was blinking up at Peter, his groans the most heart-breaking sound. Genevieve patted the Soldier’s shoulder before climbing down to help.

 “Hey, George,” She said as calmly as possible, “I’m going to need you to stay still, ok? No moving, do you understand?”

 A whimper that sounded vaguely like a “yes” came through as Peter pressed a make-shift bandage onto his head.

 “You’ve, uh, got to keep pressure on it, um, until the blood clots,” Genevieve rambled off, taking her hair out of its already-loose bun. Taking the few remaining hair pins, she waited until Peter had tied the bandage tightly around George’s head before pinning it tighter around the wound.

 She pressed down on the blood, hoping to slow it down at least. It appeared to do the trick; no blood was seeping through the cloth. George’s whimpers were growing quieter as he trembled.

 “You’re doing really well, George,” Genevieve tried to assure him by taking his hand, “You’re doing good. Just keep still.”

 To make up for the lack of conviction in her voice, she squeezed his hand. He clung to it like it was the final life line. When she took it back, Genevieve had to rub the feeling back into it before adjusting the bandage.

 “Peter! I need you!” Mr. Dawson called from above them.

 “Go, I’ll stay,” Genevieve nodded her head. Rather reluctantly, Peter left. The silence became uncomfortable but at least George wasn’t making that god-awful sound anymore. The bleeding seemed to slow down too.

 “What did you mean “bloody cows”?” George whispered, tears slipping down his face.

 “Oh nothing,” Genevieve dismissed before realising this boy might die. He was looking for distraction.

 “I mean, I was thinking about my home. I worked on a farm before this,” She elaborated, “One of the jobs was mucking out the cows. I swear they deliberately held in their shit until I was done cleaning then took their sweet time using the facilities.”

 George let out a short laugh amidst his sniffing, “You said you’d stop the cursing.”

 “I’m under stress, I have an excuse.” Genevieve tugged her sleeve down and wiped his tears away.

 “Can I swear?”

 “Go ahead.”

 “Shit,” He spoke in a hushed but exhilarated tone before groaning again. Genevieve pressed back down on his head, desperate to stop his whimpers of pain.

 “I had to, uh, pick apples too. From the orchard. I was great at climbing trees. Used to hide in them. M’sister would bake pies. They’re great. When we get back, you’ll have to have a slice. I’ll show you the cows and we can flip them off.”

 George tried to nod but let out another whimper. Genevieve was running out of material.

 “Uh, my sister runs the farm now and my brother’s an engineer. Your family do anything?”

 “No,” George cried harder, “Nothing.”

 “But you did. You’re nuts but you did. You saved two soldiers.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Yeah, exactly.”

 “Will you tell my dad about it?”

 Genevieve swallowed hard before speaking, “Sit tight and you can tell him yourself.”

 “Yeah but I want you to be there too.”

 “Tell you what, I’ll come along, bring a pie, make a celebration out of it. Deal?”

 “Mmmm.”

 Peter reappeared in the stairs. Seeing George in such a state, he dropped to his knees and checked his friend’s head. Removing her hands so Peter could adjust the bandage, Genevieve gave the two some space.

 She moved to the opposite corner to the Shivering Soldier, back to her blanket, and hugged it to her chest. Exhaling deeply, she looked back out at the sea. When they grew louder, her hands blocked out the sound of George crying. It was almost too much to bear. Her stare lingered on the companionway nonetheless.

 After what seemed like hours, Peter came back on deck. He whispered something to his father, wind carrying fragments to Genevieve’s ears. The bleeding wasn’t stopping. Mr. Dawson kept his line of sight towards France and Peter dejectedly sat beside Genevieve.

 “I made all that stuff up to calm him down,” She said quietly to Peter, “That blood clot stuff is for scabs, not head wounds.”

 “Ok,” Peter said monotonously.

 “I’m sorry, I… I’m not a nurse, I don’t know if he’s gonna be alright.


	4. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One man down, it’s time for another person to come aboard the Moonstone

 A nearby detonation caught everyone’s attention. Plumes of water were rising and falling like geysers. The fallout crashed amongst the minesweeper in the distance. The droning of German bombers drifted overhead; like gnats, 109 fighters buzzed around them. Genevieve tensed at the disgustingly familiar sound, following the Soldier’s example and cowering in the corner - curled up into a ball.

 Peter sat, just as rigid, eyes fixed on the planes. His father was doing the same. Then he threw the wheel to turn the ship starboard. The minesweeper chugged away from the bombs and towards the Moonstone, making little progress before it was attacked again.

 “Heinkel,” Mr. Dawson informed, “They’ll go for the minesweeper.”

 “Shouldn’t we stand by? To pick up survivors?” Peter stood by his father.

 “To do that, we have to survive ourselves.” The Moonstone ploughed through the water straight to the minesweeper. Genevieve tugged their blanket off, dry enough now, and prepared herself for the side-quest onto Dunkirk.

 The Heinkel and its two fighters were converging on the minesweeper like flies to dung. They dropped their cargo in the water adjacent to the sluggishly ship, as if they were being coy and teasing the occupants of the boat with their inevitable demise.

 “Spitfire! Dad, Spitfire!” Peter cried cheerfully as two Spitfires zipped overheard towards their target. One immediately dove right between the two 109s and set one alight. Genevieve felt a surge of hope – a side effect of the patriotism she was being drowned in.

 “He got him, he got him!!” Peter cheered. The Spitfire circled back around to join its partner, who was flying close over the Heinkel. Sensing the Spitfires were going to take them down, the Heinkel left the minesweeper – still intact.

 Mr. Dawson eased back on the speed, “The Heinkel’s moved off.” Genevieve sighed with relief.

 Just as he spoke, one of the Spitfires began to smoke and drop altitude.

 “Oh no.”

 Spying the smoke, Mr. Dawson threw the wheel, spinning the yacht around to head back to where the Spitfire would land. Pushing the boat into full throttle, he shouted:

 “Watch for a parachute!”

 The engine of the Moonstone strained audibly as it pushed over to where the Spitfire would land. The aircraft trailed smoke, dropping closer and closer to the water. Genevieve lost sight of it as the Spitfire dipped below the cabin roof. She listened quietly while putting her hair back into a ponytail - a few of the shorter strands sticking out without their pins.

 Peter leant back into the boat to address his father, “No parachute.”

 The Moonstone surged over the waves. Mr Dawson controlled his boat through instinct, his focus on the Spitfire as it finally landed in the surface and sprayed water.

 “He’s down.”

 The news didn’t dissuade Mr. Dawson. He pushed the boat towards where the plane went down, his fists tight on the steering wheel.

 Bemused, Peter stepped closer to his father and spoke louder, “There was no ‘chute, Dad.”

 Mr. Dawson continued to ignore him, the Moonstone’s engine screaming as she reached her limit. The sound must’ve drowned out Peter’s sentence so he repeated:

 “Dad, there was no ‘chute. He’s probably dead.”

 Snapping around, Mr. Dawson cried, “I hear you, Peter, I hear you!”

 Genevieve recoiled at his sudden volume increase, as shocked as Peter at the outburst.

 “Damn it, he might be alive!” Mr. Dawson waved a hand half-heartedly at the Spitfire. They were now close enough to see its progression into the water. Genevieve stood up, neglecting her blanket to get a better look at the plane and hunt for a sign of life.

 Recollecting his decorum, Mr. Dawson instructed, “Go forward with the boat hook.”

 Peter turned to grab it but Genevieve was already standing with the boat hook in both hands. She was testing out the weight.

 “I’m stronger than you,” She said simply, stepping up to the edge of the Moonstone as she drew closer to the Spitfire. There was movement in the cockpit but the canopy was stuck, the water lapping over it as the plane sunk further. Hoisting it above her head, she thwacked it down onto the canopy and left a crack. Peter helped the weakened soldier lift the boat hook up to hit the wreckage again. This time, the canopy cracked open a hole.

 The pilot pulled himself out of the sinking Spitfire, pushing it down to free him out of the cockpit. He gasped for air, looking around disoriented before he found the Moonstone with a young man and woman holding the outstretched boat hook to him. The incongruity of the situation was only increased when he grabbed the oar and said casually:

 “Afternoon.”


	5. Colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newest member of the Moonstone crew takes the time between rescues to get to know Genevieve.

 Genevieve and Peter took one arm each and tugged the pilot aboard. No longer needing their mostly dry blanket now, Genevieve passed it to him.

 “Thank you,” He wrapped it around his shoulders. A drop of water dropped from his fringe onto his nose. Genevieve merely nodded before taking a seat back at the back of the boat.

 “Come here, quickly,” Peter dragged him down the companionway. Genevieve gripped the side to stop the slight dizziness before resting their head on the side with closed eyes. The interaction had been exhausting, not to mention the added fatigue of lifting a six-foot-tall man out of water.

 She watched the Spitfire dip below the waves, finally sinking to the ocean floor. It looked almost poignant. Hopefully that wasn’t a metaphor of what was to come. Turning back to the boat, she made eye contact with the Shivering Soldier for the first time. She lacked the energy or the effort to smile at him. Instead they just stared at each other.

 The pilot re-emerged with a cup from the cabin and sat next to Genevieve. A dejected Peter clambered back up and the Shivering Soldier watched him come out on deck.

 He looked up at the teenager, “Is he alright? The boy?”

 “No. No, he’s not,” Peter spat at the Soldier who shrank back into the corner. Mr. Dawson touched his son’s arm in a form of restraint as Peter continued to glare at him until he went back to work. Genevieve stared at the stairs, thinking about George. If he made it, she would do more than stay true to her word.

 “You’re not a nurse?” The pilot asked quietly so as not to shock her.

 “No. Sniper.”

 “Oh, well, you did good by that boy.” A pause. “I’m Collins. Jack Collins.”

 He held out a hand. Genevieve stared at it briefly before shaking it. It was still a bit wet.

 “Genevieve Hastings.”

 While tempted to use the generic line of “beautiful name for a beautiful girl”, Jack smiled at her before releasing her hand, “Good to meet you.”

 “Yeah. Same.” Another pause.

 “What’s your favourite colour?”

 Genevieve broke her staring contest with her knees, “What?”

 “What’s your favourite colour?” Jack repeated with a shy smile.

 Genevieve frowned cautiously, “Why?”

 “Gotta pass the time somehow,” Jack said, watching her over the rim of the cup as he took a sip from it. Genevieve pondered over humouring this strange man.

 “Mine’s green.” The pair looked up at Mr. Dawson who was grinning at them over his shoulder. Genevieve’s frown relaxed a little.

 She answered, “It was blue but I think I should re-evaluate.”

 “Why?”

 Genevieve made a vague gesture to the sea and the sky with an expression of resignation.

 “Ah,” Jack nodded with understanding, “Well, mine’s orange.”

 “Nice.” Another pause.

 “Orange you glad I didn’t say blue?”

 “Oh my god.” Genevieve dropped her head into her hands with a short release of breath, “That was despicable.”

 “Made you laugh though,” Jack sipped his tea again. Genevieve didn’t argue.

 “How’d you end up here then?” He continued, rubbing his hair with the blanket. Spying the Shivering Soldier flinch at this, Genevieve shuffled closer to Jack and whispered:

 “Our ship got torpedoed.”

 “Shit,” Jack shivered at how close she was in spite of the blanket, “I’m sorry.”

 “Hmm,” Genevieve hummed, unsure of what else to say.

 She screwed up her eyes as another explosion rang past the Moonstone. She opened them up to see a destroyer up ahead. It was being bombed by a Heinkel, causing it to tilt in the water. A quarter of a mile off to the right was a blue fishing trawler but it was also sinking. Far behind these ships was the beach of Dunkirk, minute in comparison to everything else. The Shivering Soldier retreated into himself as Jack approached Peter and Mr. Dawson.

 “Dad, there’s men in the water!” Peter pointed to the tiny black shapes swimming out of both ships. Mr. Dawson put the throttle forward, heading into the fray. The Heinkel dipped in and out of the battle, pursued by the Spitfire from before.

 “Come on, Farrier,” Jack muttered to himself. He watched Farrier fly around to get after the Heinkel. Genevieve stood up as the Moonstone drew close to the men in the water. She tugged Jack and Peter to the side of the boat. They leant over and grabbed the first soldier they could reach. He was coated in a black sludge, his features indistinguishable in the glossy black filth.

 “Oil. We’re getting into oil!” Jack warned Mr. Dawson, who halted the boat before it came into contact with the thick mass that was leaking from the destroyer. The three began to fish men out of the water, their combined strength making it easier. The sound of the planes firing on each other filled the area’s occupants with

 The deck of the ship rapidly filled up so Genevieve began to direct the rest of the soldiers down into the cabin – with the aid of Mr. Dawson at their hesitation. Peter nearly dropped a soldier back into the water as the ones already on-board trooped down the stairs.

 “Careful there! Careful!” He demanded of those leading the way. Genevieve leant back after helping another soldier up to make sure that George was being treated with care. One of the oily survivors looked up at his rescuers.

 “He’s dead, mate.” Genevieve felt her grip tighten on the boat’s side and she held back the bile but she kept lifting a soldier up. Peter let the news settle in before responding adamantly:

 “So be bloody careful with him!”

 Peter steps out of the cabin, reeling. Meeting his dad’s questioning glance with unmistakable shock, Genevieve finished helping up the soldier and went over to Peter.

 “We have to keep going,” She whispered, her throat clogged up, “We have to.”

 Silent, Peter nodded and the two went back to hauling soldiers onto their boat but were stopped by the Shivering Soldier, his terrified eyes searching for an answer.

 “The lad… Will he be okay?”

 Avoiding his sharp stare, Genevieve returned to the side of the boat. She alternated her focus between the dogfight in the air and the men in the water. They weren’t going to fit all of them onboard but they were bloody going to try.

 Genevieve felt someone helping her to pull up an oil-slick soldier. It was the Shivering Soldier; his shaking hands grabbed at those floating in the ocean. His weakened state seemed to have faded into strength as he lifted up a soldier. But his help came too late.

 “GO! GO! GO!” Collins shouted to Mr Dawson. He threw the engine into gear, spinning the wheel to guide the boat away from the spillage. The Heinkel was falling faster towards the oil, the flames leaving a trail of toxic black smoke in its wake. Genevieve flinched at the cries of the anguished soldiers left in the oil, turning away. She heard the Heinkel impact with the water, she felt the fire on the nape of her neck and she heard the cries turn to screams.

 Peter was leaning over the boat, his arms weighed down by one last soldier. His face was washed clean of oil by the moving water. Stepping over the other soldiers, Genevieve knelt over the edge of the side of the Moonstone and took the soldier’s other arm. Gasping for air, the soldier was pulled aboard and was laid on the deck, his eyes shut, breathing so heavily that his request was almost lost amongst his breath. But Genevieve heard it above the boat’s engine the fire and the Spitfire in the air:

 “Take me home.”


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission is over but the Moonstone isn’t out of the woods yet.

 The Moonstone chugged along through the Channel; it was low in the water, weighed down by the men lying down along her decks. Genevieve rested her chin on her knees, next to the Shivering Soldier. He was less shaky now

 Her ears caught the faint droning of a distant engine. Jack looked as though he’d caught onto it too, turning his head around to pin-point the source of the noise.

 “That’s a fighter.” The soldiers curled closer together as Mr Dawson left the wheel to listen.

 “ME 109, from the South,” He informed, clambering along the side of the cabin, “Peter, take the wheel, listen for my instructions.”

 Peter followed his father’s instructions, taking the tiller and poising for further commands.

 “Point her south.”

 Peter turned the wheel and the Moonstone swung to port. The 109 became visible on the horizon, closing in on the sailboat.

 “Full speed ahead,” Mr Dawson held his nerve as Peter throttled up. The revving engine churned the water and Genevieve’s stomach. They had come too far to be taken down by a 109. With no other option except Jack’s flare gun, she put her faith in Mr Dawson as he gave his next order.

 “Get ready to pull hard to port… before he fires he’ll have to lower his nose. I’ll give you the signal…”

 Nodding, Peter readjusted his grip, nervously switching his gaze between his father and the 109. Genevieve curled up tighter, the Shivering Soldier copying her movements. The soldiers on the boat got into the brace position as the 109’s engines turned tumultuous.

 “Wait for it… wait till he’s committed to his line…” Mr Dawson held out a hand for his son to hold his position. The 109 was practically on top of them when finally its nose dipped down.

 “NOW!”

 Peter threw the wheel and the Moonstone lurched to port. The 109 started to fire, strafing the water beside the boat. Covering her ears, Genevieve ducked her head down with her eyes screwed tight. The firing stopped and the 109 reached the second half of the Doppler Effect, fading away towards Dunkirk.

 “He’s off,” Collins grinned as he watched the 109 retreat. The stomach churning dipped to minimal nerves and Genevieve slouched back against the Moonstone.

 “Bigger fish to fry,” Mr Dawson climbed down back onto the deck. Genevieve looked at him with inquisitiveness.

 “How’d you know all that, anyway?”

 “My son’s one of you lot. I knew he’d see us through,” He said whilst reclaiming his wheel.

 “You’re RAF?” Collins asked Peter with piqued curiosity.

 “Not me,” Peter corrected, “My brother. He flew Hurricanes. He died third week into the war.”

 Genevieve looked up at the young man with a blank expression. He looked like he needed a nap but refused to take her up on her request to take over his role.

 When another 109 appeared, she felt better at its appearance as Mr Dawson repeated his tactics. And it worked again. For a while.

 “It’s coming back!” A soldier screamed, “Oh Christ, it’s coming back!” Her stomach plummeted again and Genevieve looked as saw the 109 slowly making a u-turn. Realising that the tactics might not work this time around, she decided to start on Plan B.

 “Give me your flare gun,” She stood and held her hand out to Jack who stared at it dumbfounded.

 “What?”

 “Give me your flare gun!” Genevieve said with more urgency. Remembering the useless thing that was still in his pocket, Jack took it out and passed it. Genevieve held out the gun, one eye closed but her hands were shaking too much with the waves.

 “Stand there,” She pointed to the floor in front of her. Confused, Jack did as she asked, facing her with his feet between the soldier’s legs and spread apart for balance.

 “Hold it.” She rested her wrists on his shoulders and pulled the hammer down, waiting as the 109 came back, slowly circling. Jack tensed as he realised what she was doing, the hair on his neck standing on end. Placing a hand on his chest, Genevieve moved his centre of gravity over to the right in order to get the correct line of fire then replaced her hand on the weapon.

 “Don’t… breathe.” She stared down the gun. Her finger rested on the trigger. Frozen in place, Jack waited… waited…

 The flare gun was fired as the plane flew from port at the Moonstone. A dazzling shot collided with the 109, blowing its left wing off. The plane careered off to the right, amber sparks flying out of its recently amputated limb. Two crashes were heard as the wing then the aircraft smashed into the turquoise waves.

 Satisfied, Genevieve removed her hands from Jack’s shoulders. She looked up at him, his stiff body loosening in relief. He glanced over at the wreckage and back at her. Genevieve then noticed that his eyes were a bright cornflower blue which popped out against his uniform, the sea and the sky.

 “Thank you.” She handed back the empty gun with a casual tone one would use to thank the neighbour after borrowing some sugar. She then took a seat on the side of the boat and dangling her feet through the wire support and over the side.

 Peter was staring from his position at the helm. Genevieve’s eyes flickered up to send him a quick nod then focused back on her knees. She felt Jack move to sit beside her before dropping a life jacket into her lap.

 “Just in case,” He whispered.

 Genevieve hummed in response but didn’t put it on. Her thumbs ran over the material, her nails scratching it as silence fell over the sailing boat - apart from the occasional instruction from Mr. Dawson. The soldiers – packed together like sardines in a tin – counted their blessings as they made it across the Channel with no more interference from either Germany or England.

 As the night drew closer, Jack felt Genevieve shaking beside him. He tentatively wrapped his blanket around her shoulders, his side pressed against hers so that they could share it. Genevieve didn’t seem to notice for a while; only when her shivering subsided did she react. Her head gradually came to rest against his shoulder, her eyes drooping with exhaustion.

 “You never did tell me your favourite colour.” Genevieve took a while to process this statement since she couldn’t quite believe she was going to be on land soon, much less home. Maybe not with open arms but home nonetheless.

 “I think it’s still blue,” She whispered, the wind carrying her answer to the asker.

 The sky soon turned to a burnt orange, clouds streaking thread cotton across the horizon. A coastline appeared in the place of the line where the sky met the sea. The chalky cliffs drifted past the Moonstone like ghosts in the dusk. The boat’s occupants craned their necks to see it – home. They sipped their tea and stared at the coast, unmistakably England with the lush green fields atop the cliffs’ sheer drops.

 Genevieve was no different. At the muffled mention of a soldier “wanting to see the cliffs”, she scrabbled to see them, throwing off the blanket and kneeling up on the walkway. She leant her chin on her arms – folded atop the roof of the Moonstone’s cabin – and watched the cliff slip away into the night behind them. Her gaze drifted to Jack, who was already looking in her direction. It was almost like he was staring past her, his eyes glazed over in a hypnotic state.

 “What are you looking at?” She asked quietly.

 “Nothin’.”


	7. Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ticking clock has stopped and it’s time to step back onto British soil. In spite of wishing for this moment for a year, Genevieve has never felt less like going back.

 As they pulled into Weymouth Harbour, Genevieve got to her feet. Like a toddler learning to walking, she stumbled onto the ground and struggled to move out of the way. The floor was too still. A Corporal handed her a travel chit and nudged her to the side to join the swarms of soldiers making their way to the trains. But she wasn’t going anywhere yet.

 “How many you got in there?” The Corporal marvelled as soldier after soldier filed out of the cabin. Genevieve spied the Shivering Soldier being shepherded out of the way. He brushed past her but with an appreciative expression. Genevieve nodded, silently hoping that he would be well.

 Two soldiers carried a stretcher off the boat, supervised by Peter. A lump appeared in Genevieve’s throat at the sight of the small body underneath the stretcher’s blanket. She stepped aside as it passed and made her way to Peter, not taking her eyes off the body.

 “Do you have his home address?”

 “Yes, why?” Peter asked, also staring after the stretcher.

 “I told him I would drop something off.”

 “Yes, let me write it down for you,” Peter paused until the stretcher was lost in the herd of soldiers before he walked off to find some paper and a pencil.

 “Where the hell were you!” A furious cry caught her attention. Jack was stood awkwardly taking the brunt of an angry soldier. Adorably but sympathetically flustered, he remained where he was and prepared for the rest of the abuse from other soldiers. Mr. Dawson placed a hand on his shoulder and indicated the men filing off the Moonstone.

 “They know where you were.”

 Peter reappeared at his side so Genevieve walked over to meet him. After scrawling out on a sheet of paper, Peter handed it over to her.

 “Thank you. Both of you,” Genevieve struggled meet their eyes and to get the words out. Not because she couldn’t speak but words were failing how she felt.

 “I, uh, I won’t ever forget what you did for me.”

 Mr. Dawson put on his hat and patted the woman’s shoulder, “You take care of yourself.” With that, he put his arm around his son’s shoulders and walked away. To go home.

 Genevieve looked down at the address. She’d have to get a map to find it… and she’d have to make a pie.

 “You gonna write to him?”

 “What?” She looked up at Jack who gestured to the address before scratching his ear.

 “You gonna write to that lad?”

 “No, I, uh,” Genevieve swallowed, “This is George’s address. I said I’d do something for him.”

 “Oh,” Jack nodded before the two were ushered towards the train. The two moved at a snail’s pace, stretching out their time on land and prolonging the inevitable onslaught from the general public. Genevieve slipped towards the edge of the herd, picking up a pasty from one of the volunteers and a blanket from another.

 A hand gently guided her onto the train and into a seat. Silently, she broke the pastry in half and pushed one across the table to Jack opposite her. He placed two ceramic mugs of tea in the middle, ignoring the stares he got from some of the passing soldiers.

 Genevieve’s stomach grumbled loudly as she stuffed the pastry in her mouth and downed her tea to wash the flakes away. Jack had more control over his limited meal.

 “Earl Grey,” He wrinkled his nose, “Cannae say I’m a fan. Prefer peppermint if I’m honest.” Genevieve didn’t say anything. She just finished her pasty, stuffing the rest in her mouth.

 A shrill whistle broke the silence and the train lurched before pulling out of the station. The rhythmic chugging created a hypnotic effect on the occupants of the carriage. Downing her tea, Genevieve bundled up her blanket on the table and rested her head on it. One of her arms curled underneath it for comfort, her fingers rubbing the soft material.

 “You’re shaking,” Jack’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to disturb the rest of the car.

 “It’s cold,” She whispered back, ridding herself of the pastry flakes around her mouth.

 “Here, take mine,” Jack held up his scrunched up blanket.

 “No,” Genevieve shuffled away from it, her head still set on her own blanket.

 “Please, Genevieve.”

 “No,” She spoke louder, flinching self-consciously as some of the car turned to see the commotion. Swallowing dryly, she shifted over to the window and rerolled her pillow to make it longer, not looking Jack in the eye.

 “If you’re set on me having the blanket, come here and share.”

 On quaking legs, Jack slipped out of his seat and into hers. Draping the blanket across their shoulders, he accepted one half of the makeshift pillow and settled down. Tugging the wool over her shoulder, Genevieve lay her head down again. But she didn’t close her eyes. Neither did Jack.

 His eyes were more of a royal shade in the dull light of the car, highlighting the creases by his eyes that were left behind by his smile. His perfectly straight nose aligned with his cheekbones. Genevieve felt the sudden urge to kiss him on his chapped lips, a swarm of emotions from the proximity after isolated crowds on the beach. But she really hoped that Jack didn’t feel the same. She hadn’t brushed her teeth in over two weeks.

 To avoid such an impossible event, she pressed her nose into the “pillow”, her arms tucked back underneath her head. With this movement, Jack noticed that she had a bunch of freckles gathered on her nose, above where the skin was peeling from sunburn.

 “You alright?” He murmured with his face inches from hers.

 “I will be.”

 Jack’s blinking was becoming slower, his eye lids getting heavier and harder to lift.

 Genevieve turned on her other side, “Get some sleep.”

 “G’night, Genevieve.”

 “Night, Jack.”

 

 

 

 Genevieve awoke first, despite not facing the window anymore. The blaring sun shone through to punch her in the face. Traditional British countryside flew past; cottages, fields dotted with animals and the occasional winding road disappeared behind his view, the fresh air drifting through the open window. It was home.

 Genevieve was wrapped up in the blanket, leaving Jack with a small portion resting on his back.  Their hands were close, almost touching. Careful not to wake the sleeping pilot, she draped the blanket back over him. Jack muttered gibberish – probably Scottish – and closed his fist around the “pillow” like a baby.

 Glancing out of the window, Genevieve thought about what her plan should be. She would unavoidably have to return to the army, regardless of whether the war came home or stayed in France. How long would she have with her family? She didn’t know if she even wanted to go home to their raving of the war and bombarding questions but she needed something to fill her time.

  _That was harsh_ , she thought,  _Family aren’t just something to pass the time until I get reinstated_.

 “So I can’t give you my blanket, but you can give up yours?”

 “You were asleep, I wasn’t,” Genevieve said quietly, looking down on Jack who was rubbing his eyes.

 Sinking back down onto his forearms, Jack watched Genevieve stare out of the window. An eyelash rested atop her cheekbone, twitching with the air breezing past. Instinctively he reached up to brush it away but paused as Genevieve turned.

 “Uh, you’ve got a…” Jack drifted off as the tiny hair shifted onto his fingertip, lingering on her cheek a second longer than necessary, “Got it.”

 “Thanks,” Genevieve tried not to blush as he retracted his hand. She couldn’t decipher if that was appropriate or not. Jack held up his forefinger in front of her face.

 “Make a wish,” He smiled softly.

_Fuck it._

 Raising a brow, Genevieve closed her eyes with a sigh before blowing it off his finger. It landed on the floor somewhere, soon to be lost among the boots of dismounting soldiers.

 “What did you wish for?”

 “That I’d be first in line for a dump at the station,” Genevieve said bluntly. Jack snorted then coughed to cover it up as other soldiers started to wake up.

 “What’s your plan then? Going home?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “What about your family?”

 Struggling to find the appropriate words, Genevieve settled awkwardly with: “I… don’t… want to see them.”

 “Why not?”

 “I just… don’t… what about you?”

 “I was gonna stay in a B&B or something for the day. Get cleaned up before I see my ma.”

 “Nice.”

 Jack rolled up his blanket, clicking his tongue before asking, “If you don’t want to stay with your family, would you want to stay with me?”


	8. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s one night in the B&B after a whole day of sorting out chits and standing in queues. Genevieve could fall asleep literally anywhere - hence why she offers Jack the only bed in the room.

 The room had bare walls and a bare floor (plus a faded throw rug). The timber supports were visible on the ceiling. It was small with minimal furniture: an armchair, a bed, a wardrobe, a side table and a trunk. A set of faded yellow curtains blocked the sun from shedding light on the thick layer of dust that coated the room. Genevieve sniffed; the musty smell wasn’t pleasant but it was better than salt.

 “You can sleep in the bed,” Jack entered the room first, “I’ll take the chair.”

 “No, I can’t do that,” Genevieve shook her head, “I can stay on the chair.”

 “Genevieve, you need rest.”

 “So do you.”

 Jack merely placed the thermals into her hands, “It’s ok, really. Go use the bathroom.”

 It really wasn’t. But Genevieve went to use the facilities anyway. She was quick in the shower. Even thought the water was warm, it was still water and the reminder of the recent memory wasn’t the most pleasant. The thermals she changed into were at least a size too big but they were fleecy. The feeling was alien against her skin; it was so used to the scratchy uniform.

 When she swapped rooms with Jack, Genevieve placed her folded clothes on the trunk, rolled her sleeves to her elbow and got onto the bed. Waving the duvet like a peasant leaning out of her window in the early hours of the morning, she beat the dust off and away from the bed.  Sneezing thrice in a row, she then repeated the process with the pillows. On the final pillow, she pulled it to her chest and rested her chin on it. She closed her eyes, her breathing slowed.

 “You alright?” She heard Jack by the door; she hummed in response, eyes still closed as she cradled the stupid stinking pillow.

 “Come on, love,” Jack walked over and guided her to the bed, “Get some shut eye.”

 “You should have the bed,” Genevieve grumbled but made no effort to fight his gesture of laying her down.

 Somewhat amused by her tiredness, Jack took the pillow out of her arms and tucked it behind her head, “Well, now you have it.” He pulled the cover over her, smoothing out the sheets to make Genevieve more comfortable. Jack leant down as if to kiss her goodnight but stopped. Instead, he brushed her hair off her face.

 “’Night, Gen,” He whispered.

 “You are  _not_  calling me that,” She mumbled into the pillow, already drifting off.

 Smiling to himself, Jack took a seat in the chair opposite and propped his head up on the scatter cushion. It took a while for him to get to sleep – if one could call it that. It was more like he faded in and out of consciousness with no recognition of time passing.

 When the room was dark, he’d barely gotten any sleep, and those times he had managed to rest felt like he’d blinked and he didn’t feel rested by them. Careful not to wake up Genevieve, he treaded across the floorboards, nearly tripping over the tasteless rug, and made it to the bathroom.

 Sure he saw a glass earlier, Jack felt around the sink and accidentally knocked what he was looking for into the sink. With an uttered curse or two, he turned on the faucet which had apparently increased its volume by eighty decibels.

 “Jack.”

 Said person looked at a groggy Genevieve whose trouser legs flopped over her feet.  

 “Jack,” She mumbled to him as said person sipped from the glass, “Just get into the bed please. We can share.”

 Clearly not in the mood to argue about something so trivial, Jack placed the glass down, took Genevieve’s outstretched hand (or sweater paw) and followed her back into the room. His eyes were already closed before he sat on the mattress. Ignoring the lumps and springs groaning under his weight, he sluggishly swung his legs up and pulled up the covers.

 Hearing a soft thump, Jack saw Genevieve moving a pillow into the centre of the bed. He shrugged and collapsed onto his back, instantly falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

 The room looked the same when Jack awoke as it did when they first arrived. One sliver of sunshine slipped through the curtains and was annoyingly lying across his face. The others were thrown across the room, highlighting the antiquities. Jack rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The thermal was too hot for him. A spring was digging into his shoulder blades so he rolled onto his right.

 Genevieve looked the same as she did on the train. One of her arms was under her head as she slept on her side. The other was outstretched on the pillow divider, her fingers splayed out, reaching for something. Jack’s hand, a tight fist, was mere millimetres away. The divider – placed for modesty – had clearly failed its job.

 Cautiously, Jack relaxed his grip. Carefully, he uncurled his fingers and grazed the back of Genevieve’s hand. Her skin was dry with creases and scabs. A birthmark covered a compact portion of the wrist, a misshapen blob surrounded by a smattering of freckles. Jack watched his fingers brush against her skin, following the trail of freckles up and down her arm.

 Genevieve mumbled something and Jack snatched his hand away as she rolled over onto her front. Her hand travelled further across the divider and stopped at Jack’s sleeve. Her fingers played with the soft material, each digit stroking the fabric at different speeds – almost like she was playing keys on a piano.

 What Jack did next was an out of body experience. He felt like he was stood watching by the bed as he slid his hand into Genevieve’s, watching as she closed hers around it. He raised it to his lips and delicately pressed his lips against her knuckles. He held her there for many seconds before pulling away. Genevieve pressed her face into the pillow, retracting her hand with a long exhale.

 Jack rolled back over and checked the clock. It was half past four. Sighing, he sat up and stripped off the thermal. He clambered out of the bed, careful not to wake up his friend as he felt around in his jacket pocket for the cigarette case – something he reserved for special occasions and times of stress.

 Quietly pushing open the window, Jack pulled out a pre-rolled cigarette and stuck it between his teeth. He struck a match and, once he’d lit his cigarette, smothered it into the ashtray. Inhaling deeply, he felt the relaxation wash over him. He took in the street below as he smoked, thinking about how he was going to tell his mother that Genevieve was staying with him.

 Ash dripped off the end of the cigarette, wasting it whilst he pondered over the next few weeks. He glanced back over to the bed where Genevieve was stretching her linked hands above her head, like a cat, before rolling over onto the modesty pillow with her hand flopping in the space Jack was once in.

 He restrained a smile, the left corner of his mouth quirking up. His mind strayed from planning his life for the next fortnight and towards what his life could be. Somehow Genevieve spread out asleep on the bed stemmed a thousand ideas and possibilities.

 Smelling the smoke before she saw it, Genevieve sat up, drawing the covers to protect herself from the cold air slicing through the window. Dust danced in the gaps of sunlight. One of those gaps illuminated Jack’s face from behind, throwing a shadow over his profile with his bone structure edged with a golden haze. Cigarette smoke curled around his upper torso, drifting above his head. She noticed he had a mole on the right side of his neck and another on his upper lip.

 They didn’t say anything; they simply basked in each other’s company and in the calm before the storm.

 

* * *

 

 

 **AN:** I am aware of the repetition on structure/words describing the room/Genevieve when Jack first wakes up. If you wanted analysis, like I do, it’s a direct parallel of two things: one that annoys Jack and one that doesn’t, despite both invading his sleep and two items (the curtains and the pillow divider) in both not working. Ayyyyyy symbolism. I’m finger-gunning at my keyboard.


	9. Ma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension ramps up again as Genevieve finds herself as a guest in Jack’s family home.

 “Your ma does know I’m staying, right?” Genevieve fidgeted in her seat. It wasn’t at all comfortable in the cab.

 “Yeah, I phoned ahead,” Jack assured for the umpteenth time, looking out the window.

 “And she’s ok with it?”

 “Yes, Genevieve, she is absolutely ok with it,”

 “Meeting the parents for the first time?” The cabbie asked, “It’s always tough the first time but you make a cute couple; I’m sure they’ll love you.”

 Neither bothered to correct the cabbie; they had already pulled up outside the terraced red-bricked house. Exiting the cab, Genevieve’s agitation turned to nausea. Jack led the way up to the vermillion front door and tapped the bronze knocker.

 Almost immediately, Cora Collins in a gingham apron opened the door. Her light brown hair streaked with grey was spun up into a bun. There was flour on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes – the same blue as her son’s. With a beaming smile, she flung open her arms.

 “My baby boy!” She squealed like a teenager, her accent apparent despite her living in London for many years. She embraced Jack tightly, swinging him from side to side.

 “Ma, I have to pay for th’ cab,” Jack murmured, squeezing his ma tightly before releasing her. Blubbing quietly, Cora handed him the correct change and Jack – after wiping his eyes - left Genevieve with her.

 “I’m sorry for dropping in like this. I’ll be out of your hair in a few days,” Genevieve excused, her cheeks red as she shifted on the spot.

 “Oh, it’s no problem,” Cora pulled her into a hug. A little struck, Genevieve gently returned it. When Cora pulled away, she cupped Genevieve’s face.

 “You stay as long as you want. ’M glad Jack finally found himself a nice gal.” She tugged Genevieve indoors, Jack rolling his eyes behind them.

 “Ma, we’ve been over this,” He sighed as he removed his shoes, “We aren’t a couple.”

 “I’ll be honest, we’ve only known each other a couple of days,” Genevieve added, also taking her shoes off.

 “Trust me, always feels like that when you first get together,” Cora leant over and booped Jack’s nose, “A whirlwind, romance is.”

 “Ma,” Jack groaned. Cora winked slyly at Genevieve, instantly telling her that she was teasing her son. It was working; Jack’s cheeks were tinged pink and he was shuffling like Genevieve had been earlier.

 “Come on through,” Cora called from the kitchen, “Your siblings aren’t home unfortunately. Ethel and Karen are still training at th’ hospital and Toby’s busy in Devon with a naval gun if ’m deciphering his last letter correctly.”

 Genevieve felt like a sheep, following Cora into the rustic kitchen with scattered utensils on the sideboards and a lot of flour. Jack had mentioned she loved making bread; in fact there were currently two in the oven. The smell wafted around the room, stinging Genevieve’s stomach as she wavered on her feet.

 “Tell you what dear, get out of those clothes. You can borrow Karen’s; you’re the same size as her.”

 “I’ll show you her room,” Jack took her by the shoulder and manoeuvred them out of the kitchen.

 Up the small winding stairs, past multiple photos of baby Jack, toddler Jack, child Jack and teenager Jack, Genevieve followed present day Jack into a room adjacent to the bathroom. It was simple enough, vaguely reminiscent of Lilly’s – Genevieve’s sister. It felt surreal.

 Moving around like she was treading on ice, Genevieve walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. It was all pretty similar to her wardrobe aside from some of the dresses - Genevieve was never really a fan of the colour green. She opted for a loose pair of trousers and white blouse.

 “Uh, I’ll be downstairs,” Jack left the room. Disturbing the dust in the air, Genevieve changed her outfit, ignoring all the aches, bruises and cuts that were shown to her in the looking glass. It felt unnatural, like the pyjamas the night before, to be in something so soft, so warm and dry. Tucking in the crisply ironed shirt, she smoothed it over and swallowed hard.

 Walking slowly down the stairs, Genevieve took in the photos. There were a lot more than she realised. She even spotted the outfit she was wearing in one of them – your traditional family photo. How the family had managed to get all of these printed was insane.

 Peeping into the kitchen, she saw that Jack had changed into his civvies. It was incongruous to before but he instantly looked more relaxed than before. Cora was speaking in a hushed voice to him so Genevieve didn’t know what she was saying but it looked important. She waited for a moment for a lull in the conversation before she coughed.

 “There you are!” Cora’s bright smile returned, “We were just gonna have lunch! Jack, will you get th’ drinks? Jack?”

 “Yeah, sure,” Jack shifted past his ma and collected three glasses whilst Genevieve stood by, scratching her arm. The (unhealthy) stim was interrupted by Cora who took her hand and pulled her over to the countertop. She handed her a knife and asked her to chop the lettuce. A little rusty, Genevieve managed to shred it enough to pass as “chopped”. Cora thanked her, sprinkling the lettuce on top of the ham.

 Jack was a little surprised when Cora insisted they eat in the living room. He was never even allowed a biscuit after dinner in there to keep his energy up during a match of checkers with Ethel – it was more intense than it sounded. But apparently Cora was willing to break her rule for their guest.

 Restraining herself, Genevieve steadily ate her sandwich. It was absolutely delicious, the best thing she’d had in forever. Remembering to breathe between bites, Genevieve kept her eyes trained on her plate, only lifting them to drink her tea.

 “So, Jack tells me,” Cora paused to sip her tea and Genevieve tensed in preparation for the questioning of her career choices. Jack tried to stop her but Cora held up a hand before continuing, effectively silencing his protests.

 “You grew up on a farm. Different from ‘ere, I’m sure.”

_Oh thank god._

 “Uh, yeah, a lot,” Genevieve’s shoulders slumped in relaxation. Cora smiled wanly, knowing she’d tactfully avoided the worst.

 “Was it your family’s?” She asked.

 “Yes, my ma inherited it so we moved there and ran it. Uh, what about you? When did you move to London?”

 “Oh, donkeys ago. Jack were only five but he gets his accent from me and his brother. He was desperate to be jus’ like him, right down to his dialect.”

 Jack attempted to intervene again from his armchair but his mother had already busied herself with baby stories, reeling off how he was “always a shy one”. Genevieve was smiling widely at Cora’s enthused hand gestures that dismissed any discomfort.

 “Lemme tell ye, he was th’ sweetest little bairn. Fluffy hair like a chick – get’s tha’ from his father - and these big blue eyes.”

 “Please tell me you have photos,” Genevieve looked over at Jack, the smile still present. Jack felt his resolve weaken slightly but was determined not to have himself embarrassed

 “Oh I’m sure you don’t want to hear all those stories,” Cora said theatrically to mask her smirk.

 “I don’t if anyone’s interested,” Jack shrugged as he spoke to the room.

 “I’m sure I want every single anecdote. Spare no detail.”

 Grinning the same dimpled smile as her son’s, Cora sprang from the sofa with new vigour and pulled out a large burgundy album out of the drawer that looked as though it weighed a ton.

 “Alrigh’, well, I’m getting more tea. Gen, d’you want some?”

 “I thought I said you’re not to call me that,” Genevieve said, a cheeky tone in her voice that was refreshing to hear, “No, I’m ok. Thank you, Jack.”

 Leaving the room, Jack found his way back around the kitchen, muscle memory supplying him with the route to the tea. Unfortunately, he saw that Ma didn’t have any more peppermint tea. He shut the door, flinching as it slammed by accident. He was expecting a verbal bollocking when he returned to the sitting room.

 Cora and Genevieve were sat in the centre of the double-seater, giggling over the photo album – particularly at one photo of toddler Jack in a nappy with an ice cream cone on his head like a party hat, melted chocolate dribbling down his face. His guest was clearly having a whale of a time.

 As childish as it was, he felt a little out of place watching them interact without him. Isolation weighed down his body and he left to go find himself a stronger drink of the alcoholic variety.


	10. Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cracks start to show in the current patriarch of the Collins’ household.

 So far, Genevieve had been enjoying her time with Jack and Cora. She’d fitted right in with the cleaning schedule and Cora never pushed her into saying anything she didn’t want. Most importantly, today she’d managed to get a letter to her family to tell them she was ok and would be home soon.

 Jack however was closed off more recently, almost as if they had swapped personas. He had disappeared at five past four without his coat. Cora and Genevieve knew that it was because he was drinking a lot more now he had access to a bigger supply of whiskey and had stalked off to the pub after a confrontation with his ma. Not wanting to get between them, Genevieve had stayed in her room.

 But now it was getting late and Jack hadn’t returned. So in spite of her anxiety, she was now walking towards the local in search of her friend.

 The bar was packed with strangers, so tightly that one couldn’t move through the room without bumping into at least five people and getting something spilt down your front. In Genevieve’s case it was four people on the way in and a splash of white wine down her coat.

 Slipping past some of the more sober patrons, Genevieve spotted her mark and tapped Jack on the shoulder, “Hello.”

 “’S th’ light of me life!” Jack cheered over the rabble. His speech was noticeably slower and more emphasised, like he’d spent hours deciding on what his words were going to be. What were more indicative of his drunken state were his eyes – bloodshot – and his movements – sluggish and sloppy. Not to mention the fact that his nose was bright red and shiny.

Genevieve was a tad surprised. Usually Jack was incredibly bad-tempered before and after a drink. All the physical symptoms were the same. It was just his persona.

 “What are you doing?”

 “I didnae drown in me Spitfire! But I’ll drown in whiskey!” He held out his glass, spilling some of the whiskey onto the floor. He was grinning with obvious pleasure at his play-on words.

 “Ok,” Genevieve took the glass out of his hand, already extremely uncomfortable with the scenario, “Home time, your ma’s waiting.”

 “Wha’? Already? But s’happy hour in a bit!” Jack attempted to down the rest of his drink in time for his departure but Genevieve took the glass away, ignoring his childish protests, and dragged him out of the door. He whined the whole way home, clinging to her side and vying for her attention.

 As they got through the door, Cora was waiting by the banister with a blank expression on her face. It was more terrifying than any shouting Genevieve had received at the hands of a parent; she shied away from Cora as she stepped up to her son with folded arms.

 “I have no words for you but rest assured, I will have plenty for you tomorrow,” She spoke with calm anger.

 “Ma! I ‘ave words too! I love you.” Jack beamed at her widely and unaffected by this threat, wiping his feet on the mat obediently.

 “Do you want me to get him upstairs?” Cora looked at Genevieve, her face now relaxed in a sympathetic smile, “I really appreciate you going to fetch him. You must be tired.”

 “It’s alright, you head upstairs. I’ll sort him out.”

 “Oooo, you’ll sort me oooot,” Jack swooned with his over-the-top girly tone, leaning backwards so that, despite facing away from her, he was resting his head against Genevieve’s shoulder. Straightening him up, Genevieve dedicated all energy to helping Jack up the stairs. He tried to help himself but he nearly knocked them both backwards.

 Eventually they made it to his room. By that time, Genevieve was too tired for any complex instructions.

 “Jack, go get changed.”

 “No, I don’ wanna,” He whined, “I wanna dance.”

 “You can dance tomorrow. Now you change into your pyjamas and go to bed.”

 “I don’ like me jammies.”

 Genevieve hid her face in her hand, “Jesus Christ.”

 “You can call me Ja-” He prepared to spin around with the rest of his quippy one-liner but lost his balance and landed on the bed. Genuine laughter nearly escaped Genevieve’s chest but she held it in with a stoic face. Then Jack sat up violently and his eyes widened. He made a dash for the bathroom. Genevieve followed in time to see him throw up the contents of his stomach into the bath. Dropping beside him, she rubbed his back.

 “Ok, sweetie, it’s gonna be ok,” She ran her fingers through his hair as he clung to the bath’s rim. His gibberish was gone now. Taking the silence that followed as the signal that Jack’s stomach was now empty, Genevieve topped up a glass of water and, with a flannel under his chin, helped Jack drink it.

 She was refilling the glass when she heard a small voice say, “I miss Farrier.”

 Genevieve looked at his reflection. His hand was over his shoulder and still clinging to the rim of the tub. His glassy eyes stared dully without seeing. Gentle with his face, Genevieve helped him sip the rest of his drink before placing the glass back on the side.

 “Come on. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

 “I’m a real lightweight,” Jack had a nostalgic smile on his face, “Farrier used to have to carry me back, like you did tonight!”

 “That was nice of him,” Genevieve offered him a sympathetic smile

 “The two people I love helpin’ me home when I’m pissed. Coincidence or wha’?”

 Tensing slightly, Genevieve pulled him up to his feet and moved him back to the bedroom to change him out of his clothes. She managed to get him down to his undershirt and his underwear before he started giggling again but he was already in bed by this point. Genevieve tucked him in as he wriggled into the duvet with a pout. The pout subsided into a goofy grin when Genevieve smoothed the hair off his forehead.

 “I do think I love you,” Jack mumbled into the duvet. Genevieve tensed again before speaking.

 “I think you’re drunk.”

 “I  _know_  am drunk,” He lifted his head up, knocking his forehead against hers with a girly giggle, “So, by process of elimination, that means I know I love you!”

 “Jack, you’ve known me two weeks,” Genevieve sat up with a frown, “You’re drunk, you won’t remember this, why am I applying logic to this?”

 “Because love is illogicalalal!” Jack babbled as he sat up with her.

 “That’s… countering your argument. Lie down.”

 “I dinnae ken wha’ I’m saying! ’M drunk! I shan’t!”

 With a sigh, Genevieve straightened out the covers again as Jack stuck his arms out and met her annoyed stare with a face of shining innocence. She stood to leave but Jack grabbed her hand and tugged it.

 “Please stay,” He said, his bottom lip quivering, his eyes impossibly wide with begging. In no mood to argue, Genevieve sat beside him to pull off her socks. Eagerly, Jack patted the side of his bed where she lay down on her back with no intention of falling asleep. After moving one of his pillows into the centre of the bed, he rolled onto his side and stared at her.

 Without looking at him, Genevieve told him, “Close your eyes, Jack.” She watched at the ceiling, following the winding crack along to the wall where the white paint flaked and fluttered to the floor.

 “Do you hate me?”

 Frowning, Genevieve turned her head to face Jack with his big blue eyes still on her, “No, I don’t. Where did you get that idea from?”

 “I dinnae ken. ’Ve been grumpy all week and I made you go in a bar to get me and I know you dinnae like ‘em,” Jack snuggled into his blankets, “I don’ want you to hate me.”

 “I swear you’re going through the stages of grief,” Genevieve raised an eyebrow with a smile – the first of the evening.

 He gave a throaty stuttering laugh, “You’re funny, Genevieve, and so pretty when you smile.” He reached a clumsy hand out and grazed her cheek. So as not to insult him, Genevieve restrained her recoil, opting instead to ease away from his touch. Jack nodded, as if he understood, flopping his arm on top of the pillow – a respectable distance from her. Drunk Jack truly was a rollercoaster of emotions.

 “Come on, Jack. Time for sleep,” Genevieve coaxed softly. Moving his head, Jack nestled into the pillows with a mumble before drifting off.

 Genevieve felt odd keeping watch on Jack as he slept. It was weird to stare at someone, regardless of scenario, so him passed out was not high on the list of acceptable things to do. He did look beautiful though, peaceful for once. With his head propped up on the pillow, he was vaguely reminiscent of a cherub asleep on a cloud.

 Her mind drifted to what he had said, more specifically what he had said about Farrier. Could she…?

 Drool started to dribble out of his mouth. Using the blanket, Genevieve gently wiped his mouth clean whilst managing not to groan at him. Retracting her hand, she carefully got off the bed and went into the bathroom. Unsure of how bad his morning was going to be, she rooted around for an aspirin in the bathroom cupboards. She retrieved the last one in the bottle. They would have to go shopping tomorrow.

 Jack was writhing about in his sleep, trying to find a more comfortable spot. He settled with a snore as Genevieve placed the aspirin with his newly topped up glass of water. She left the room with barely a creak of the floorboards to alert Jack of her absence.


	11. Miller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Lord knows how long left in his home, Jack decides to bust out his old favourite pass-time and share it with Genevieve.

 A large gramophone was unnecessarily and precariously balanced on a pile of boxes Jack had already searched in. Other albums were scattered across the floor apart from a cleared rectangle in the centre of the living room and a pathway to the door. Genevieve watched the chaotic clutter in front of her and made no effort to enter.

 Jack was currently sifting through the boxes of vinyl, cross legged on the floor. He looked nice in his civvies, Genevieve had observed. The dark soft shirts and slightly creased trousers. The leather braces that were worn out. The socks that were more darned than original sock.

 “Have any luck?”

 “Not yet,” Jack drew out his vowels as he flicked through the box in his lap.

 “What  _are_  you looking for anyway?”

 “Record.”

 “ _No, really?_ ”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Jack put the box aside and scooped up another into his lap. His eyes widened at the halfway point as he whipped out a record, shoving the box aside.

 “Found it!” He leapt up and slipped the record out of its sleeve with care, placing it on the turntable.

 “What is it?” Genevieve leant over to see the album art. She wrinkled her nose once she caught sight of it and Jack noticed this.

 “You don’t like Glenn Miller?” He placed an effeminate hand on his chest and bore an expression of exaggerated camp offence.

 “Not really,” Genevieve leant against the door frame with a shrug as Jack managed to place to needle on the record without scratching it. “In The Mood” began emitting from the horn and Jack held out a hand.

 “Fancy a dance anyway?”

 Genevieve shrank back a little with passive disgust, “I’ll pass.”

 Shrugging, Jack stood arms akimbo, “Fine, I will dance by myself,” and started some weird combination of a Charleston quickstep and a mad chicken impression. Genevieve burst into snorts, automatically doubling over at her friend’s “dancing”. Egged on by her reaction, Jack’s moves became more enthused – if that were possible – and grinned cheerily.

 “Lucky I’m wearing braces or else my trousers’d be at my ankles,” He commented, already out of breath as he changed his repertoire to an attempt at a pirouette. He nearly collided with the gramophone so instead did the Twist.

 “You are terrible!” Genevieve covered her mouth as she approached his dance floor chortling, “You are actually causing me physical pain.”

 “I think you’ll find I’m a GREAT dancer!” Jack said accusingly with out-of-place jazz hands and a box step that was more like a pentagon.

 “You’re the worst!” Genevieve shielded her face and peaked through her fingers, the spectacle too embarrassing to watch but too unbelievable to miss.

 “Alright then, if you’re  _so_  much better than me, prove it,” Jack took both her wrists and pulled her towards him sharply. Letting out a small yelp, Genevieve watched as Jack pivoted on his feet, twisting his body and pulling her limp arms with him.

 Slowly she slipped her wrists out of his hands to replace them with her own. She bit back a smile as she began to “dance” with him. Her feet made a more comprehensible set of steps as Jack tripped over his own. Their laughter started small and grew as they both put more vigour into their moves.

 Suddenly, Jack tugged Genevieve closer, his right hand on her ribcage, and the pair started swinging from side to side. Their legs were straight and rigid as they swayed back and forth, cackling at the awkward movements. It was like a couple’s can-can.

 As Genevieve grew tired of this, she pushed Jack back and spun him around. Feeling giddy, he stopped and did the same with his dance partner. The room blurred as Genevieve twirled, Jack’s hand her only anchor in the dizzy sensation. The hand pulled her back in, wrapping across her chest as she was pulled against his and connected their hands on her waist.

 The two swayed but with less energy, slowing to a stop as they caught their breath amongst giggles. Genevieve leant her head back onto Jack’s shoulder, her laughter now a faint smile etched on her face, before stepping away.

 “Alright, you’re not a bad dancer,” Jack complimented, looking down at her and going to change the record. He flipped over the vinyl and studied its sleeve.

 “Hey, Genevieve?” He looked up with the B-side facing her, “One more dance?”

 “More Miller?” Genevieve raised a brow.

 “More Miller. Please?”

 “Uh, fine.” Genevieve watched Jack fumble with the gramophone one more time before “Moonlight Serenade” eased into the room.

 “Let’s do it properly this time,” Jack took her hands again.

 “What, your chicken dance wasn’t proper?” Genevieve joked as he replaced his hand on her lower ribcage and she on his shoulder. Taking her left hand on his, Jack led the dance slowly with deliberate steps and sustained, slightly awkward eye contact. Licking her lower lip, Genevieve looked down at her feet, only for Jack to lift her chin up.

 “It’s ok, just look at me,” He said softly, “Don’t worry about your feet.”

 “Where did you learn to dance then?” Genevieve said just as quietly, desperate not to stand on him.

 “My parents taught me and my siblings together.” Genevieve smiled at the image of a couple teaching their kids in pairs to slow dance in the lounge, a little Jack eager to learn the steps properly with his sister.

 “That’s adorable.”

 “Why thank you,” Jack loosened his hand to spin her with more control this time.

 Genevieve found herself soothed with her assurance in the steps. Soon she was doing them without thinking. She also found the constant eye contact easier to keep now she wasn’t worrying about her feet or her palms getting sweaty.

 Their breath was caught up in the same space as Jack and Genevieve finally realised the close proximity between them. Tension built exponentially as neither spoke for a long time, silence only broken by the scratching of the record… record.

 “The records finished,” Genevieve released his hand and stepped away from him. Cold washed over Jack as he felt the loss of body heat. Unable to confront the tension, he busied himself with his turntable. Genevieve patted down her clothes and left without another word. She didn’t know why she felt so funny or why she was thinking of Jack’s drunken confession. It had no meaning to it. She had to be projecting her feelings from France. That was it.


	12. Cheerio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable is happening. It’s finally time to return to the war.

 Cora had refused to come – something about the crowds and the waving of handkerchiefs. It was like Genevieve wanted to go either, but for the unbearable goodbye and not the handkerchiefs.

 Although she would not come with them, Cora waved them off by the front door; she looked identical to when Jack and Genevieve first arrived. She had the same hairstyle, the same apron, the same flour smattered on her clothes and cheeks. The only difference was the smile. It did not reach her eyes. There was no sparkle or authenticity behind it.

 Jack watched her through the rear window of the cab, waving the whole time. It wouldn’t stop, the tremor in his hand and the only way to hide it was waving. He sat back down properly after the cab rounded the corner, his hands clenched in his lap. Genevieve’s hand slid into his and the tremor ceased with a gentle squeeze.

 The pair had yet to exchange details about where they were positioned. In fact they hadn’t spoken about going back at all. When Jack received his summons, he left the kitchen and spent a good hour in his room. Genevieve hadn’t thought to bring it up. They both knew what was going to happen, why keep bringing it up?

 As the cab pulled up to the curb, Genevieve left the cab first, waiting for Jack to pay, and then they walked through the packed station. Both lugging their suitcases, they managed to sort out their tickets and get on the platform with some time to spare.

 Ten minutes. They had ten minutes until the train left.

 “Can…” Jack paused before taking Genevieve by the hand and tugging her to the side, out of view of anyone in the vicinity. Once hidden away, he fumbled in his pockets before retrieving a slip of paper and a pencil.

 “Can I write to you?” He asked quietly.

 “Absolutely.”

 Breathing a sigh of relief, Jack struggled with the lack of a solid surface to support his scribbling.

 “Is that alright?” He held up the paper and screwed up his face to distinguish the markings. Genevieve stifled a grin as he held the paper right in front of his eyes, the buzzing lamp of the station illuminating it from behind. Noticing her lips biting back a smirk, Jack’s cheeks flared red.

 “Promise you’ll write to me?” He pressed the paper into Genevieve’s hand and held it between his own, “Please.”

 “I promise,” Genevieve nodded earnestly, already drafting up a version in her head.

 Jack smiled - a small, still self-conscious smile. His two dimples appeared in the corners of his mouth as he gave her the paper and pencil. Genevieve squeezed his hand as she took them. Feeling tears spiking in his eyes, Jack pulled her into a hug and hid them in her shoulder.

 Genevieve felt choked up as she held him close, “We said no tears.”

 “I’m usually a man of my word,” Jack sniffed, “Sorry.”

 “I think your integrity won’t take much of a hit from this,” Genevieve adjusted her arms as they clung to each other and restrained their emotions. They pulled away, a pregnant silence falling between them as they studied the features of their friend in fear that they would forget.

 “I don’t know what to say,” Genevieve laughed in spite of herself.

 Jack picked up his suitcase as he took her hand, “I do: Thank you for saving me, Genevieve Hastings.”

 Genevieve squeezed his hands, desperately trying not to cry, “You’re most welcome, Jack Collins. Thank you for saving me.”

 “It was my pleasure,” Jack’s head turned as he heard the clamour of soldiers being pushed towards the train. It was time. He forced a smile, wanting to repair the illusion that he was fine.

 “Cheerio.”

 “Cheerio?” Genevieve said incredulously.

 “Yeah, it’s not goodbye, it’s not see you soon, it’s cheerio,” Jack explained with a less-forced smile.

 “Pip-pip, old sport,” Genevieve imitated a pompous elitist but her comedy couldn’t stop a tear sliding down her cheek. She brushed it away briskly.

 “So long, my chum.” Jack paused as Genevieve let out a wheeze – the same as it was on the Moonstone. This was it, his chance to do it. They were so close and he might never see her again. But his body wasn’t moving. He screamed at himself in his head to do something.

 A conductor’s whistle blew shrilly and it was too late.

 “Good luck with the pie!” He dropped her hand and ran for the train, slipping past the conductor and into the carriage. There was a seat by the window miraculously. Tossing his case into the seat, he pressed himself against the window, scanning the crowds for Genevieve.

 There she was, right next to the window, still holding back her tears with a smile. Tugging the top panel open, Jack stuck his arm through the gap and saw Genevieve take his hand. The train started to move and Jack felt it try to pull him away from her grip. In a few metres, she would run out of platform to stand on.

 It was a sand timer, running out dangerously fast. There was time for one more thing - one final gesture. Genevieve lifted his hand to her cool lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles before releasing it.

 Jack strained to see her. She stayed the whole time at the edge of the platform, the head of the swarm’s of people left behind, still waving and holding back her tears. Her lips moved and he made out the word “cheerio”. The train chugged around the corner and Genevieve disappeared in the smoke spewed by the funnel.

 Taking his hand out of the window, Jack rubbed the feeling back into it. His thumb massaged the spot Genevieve had kissed; regret flooded in his stomach. With his elbows in the table, he gripped his hair and hid his face from everyone as he finally began to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

 The faint droning of cows in the fields sounded far away to Genevieve, her boots rubbing her feet as they squelched through the mud. She was holding the frayed piece of paper; it was turning to pulp in her hands from the sweat and holding it the whole journey to her current location.

 The farmhouse came into view, the thatched roof alight in the setting sun. The paint on the gate was flaking off, the turquoise flecked with the brown wood. It groaned loudly as Genevieve pushed it open. She’d have to oil that later.

 Genevieve closed her eyes and focused on remembering Jack’s face. So far, she was doing well at picturing him in her mind but in the future that may not be so easy. Still, the memory of his smile calmed her slightly and she advanced on the front door. Her knuckles didn’t register the knocking against the frame.

 In all her maternal glory, Lilly Bradford (nee Hastings) opened the door with a bowl perched on her hip, prepared for her parents return. Her eyes widened as she took in the vision of her dishelved sister.

 “Hello, Lilly,” Genevieve said weakly. Lilly dropped her mixing bowl, angel delight and glass splattering over both their clothes.

 “Good thing that’s not my nephew,” Genevieve joked weakly, “Though I guess he’s too big to carry now, right?”

 Lilly crushed the air out of Genevieve with a hug. Genevieve tensed a little before placing her arms lightly around her sister’s shoulders. Lilly latched onto her, sobbing into her shoulder.

 “We weren’t sure when you were coming back! We saw the papers and then you sent a letter without a return address! Where were you?” She blubbered almost incomprehensibly.

 “Staying with a friend. I needed some space before I came back.” Genevieve gestured to the inside of the house and tried to go in but Lilly pushed her back with her shrill reply:

 “You needed space!” Fortunately, an interruption in the form of a mop of brown hair and a paisley shirt came through.

 “Aunty Gem!” James sprinted through the angel delight and collided with Genevieve’s legs.

 “Hey, tinker,” She hoisted James into the air, pretending to struggle with his weight before tossing him up and catching him on her hip – so no, he wasn’t too big to carry.

 “I swallowed my tooth!” He said proudly to his aunt.

 Faking intrigue, Genevieve nodded, “Oh, very nice.” James wriggled out of her arms and pulled her through the broken glass and spoiled pudding into the kitchen. It was completely cluttered with crayons, dirty dishes and ration coupons.

 “Mum and Dad are out, they left me in charge,” Lilly explained their absence.

 Genevieve nodded, listening for any other occupants of the house, “Where’s William?”

 “He’s out with them.”

 “Good. I don’t need any distractions right now,” Genevieve stuck her hands under the faucet, creating foamy bubbles between her fingers.

 “What are you doing?” Lilly stood beside her. Apparently, cleaning up the smashed bowl and pink foam wasn’t a priority.

 “Uh, I need your help, you were always better at this than me,” Genevieve dismissed the question, “I have to run an errand.”

 “Why, you just got back? What do you want to make?”

 “An apple pie.”


	13. Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long does one man have to wait for a single sign? According to his experiences, just over a month.

 “Any post today?” Jack asked, trying not to sound too eager. His mate shook his head, instead handing a telegram to the new leader of their squadron. Slumping in his seat, he fiddled with the end of his tie.

 “What’s wrong, Collins?” Russell slapped him on the back, his overly jovial manner the opposite of what Jack needed.

 “Nothing.”

 “Oooo, he’s acting like a teenager,” Russell went over to slap the other men around. Jack dropped his tie, having lost interest the second before he started fidgeting. In truth, he was acting like a teenager. He’d been getting moody without any contact from Genevieve – not to mention the war was dragging on without any signs of ending. Worst of all, there was nothing on Farrier - no news on his whereabouts or any plans to rescue him.

 The squadron was midway through a debriefing for the next mission when Collins came back to earth. Duty for King and Country and all that. His uniform itched annoyingly, adding to the list of things that were ruining his day. It was small by comparison to the world war that was currently happening but it still bothered him.

 A month of nothing from anyone at home or otherwise. What was he meant to do with that?

 “Oi, Collins!” The CO yelled across the hanger despite already making his way over.

 “Yes, sir?” Jack stood with forced effort, tugging on his ear. The CO then thought he’d better wait until he was right in front of the person he was addressing to continue.

 “Yeh got a le’er,” He waved a brown envelope in front of his face, chortling as Jack’s eyes went wider than saucers.

 “Uh,” He said dumbly, “Thanks, sir.”

 “You gonna take it?” The CO shook the envelope more violently at the poor pilot.

 “Yes! Yes, yes,” Jack accepted the letter, his hands trembling with anticipation. Not trusting himself to open it with all those beady eyes on him, he held back the urge to rip it open. Instead, he slipped it into his breast pocket.

 He went back to the briefing but the blood roaring in his ears made it hard to listen. Still, he managed to get the basic outline and disappeared to go for a “pre-flight piss”. Locking himself in the cubicle, he took a seat on the toilet lid – grimacing as he did so – and tore open the envelope.

 There were two sheets of paper. Dropping the envelope and one of the papers into his lap, Jack unfolded the first while cursing himself for his quaking hands.

 Orange splashed across the page. Two small flowers were squashed onto the parchment but still retained their natural beauty. Their perfect orange petals bore darker veins that converged on a bright centre the colour of butter. The conjoining stems met amongst jade leaves. Their scent still lingered, reminding Jack of a garden he’d visited as a child.

 Laying down the paper gingerly in his lap, Jack picked up the other sheet of parchment and opened it. A neatly printed set of paragraphs filled the page.

 

* * *

 

**18/08/40**

**Dear Jack,**

**How are you? Stupid question, I know. Also, stupid way to start a letter - with small talk when I won’t get a response for who knows how long. But I can’t think of another way to start.**

**Thank you again for letting me stay with you and at your ma’s place. I did end up at my home for a couple of days. My parents’ farm out in the middle of Wiltshire, that stinks of shit and is overrun with dead apple trees, is the best thing I’ve seen. Never thought I’d admit that. Still, my sister went nuts – most of my family did- raving about how a young lady shouldn’t be a sniper and Dunkirk was a sign from God telling me to stay at home. A tad overwhelming but I’m glad I saw them before I went back to France.**

**I went to George’s parent’s house. They seemed grateful when I told them about what he did. Peter managed to get his picture and involvement in the papers. I felt awful the whole time I was there but at least I brought a pie instead of another casserole. You didn’t know George for very long but he was a sweet boy. He made better tea than you did, a proper brew.**

**I’m going back to France in a few days. I’m actually surprised I managed to stay in England this long. Commander Deaton – my CO – stayed at Dunkirk to help the French but died on the final boat. I can only imagine him organising all those sailing boats to the rescue. Well, I won’t have to because I’ll be there soon enough. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it but I’ll do my best.**

  **These flowers were growing in my garden and I thought of you, since they’re your favourite colour if I remember correctly. It takes a week to press flowers – per my mother – hence why it took so long to write. When given on Valentine’s Day, they mean “see, life is indeed beautiful”. I think that’s applicable to any day, in spite of how cheesy it is.**

**If I see a Spitfire flying overhead, I’ll wave.**

**Genevieve x**

**PS. Have you heard any news about Farrier? Let me know.**

********

* * *

 

 Jack sniffed, his eyes watery. How could he have doubted this wonderful person? A tear dribbled down his face; he quickly moved the letter away as it dropped to the floor. He let out a mixture between a laugh, a sob and a sigh of relief before wiping his tears away with his sleeve.

 “Come on, Jack,” He muttered, clutching the letter like it was a lifeline, “Get a hold of yourself.”

 He read and reread the letter, hearing Genevieve’s voice say the words in his mind. His fingertip traced the dried ink on the parchment, dancing on her handwriting, almost feeling her write the words. His happiness was almost spoiled with the returning regret he’d felt on the train out.

 “Come on, Collins!” One of his squadron banged on the door. Jack quickly stuck the letter back in its envelope and the envelope in his pocket. After doing his business, he checked his eyes weren’t red before heading back out into the hanger.

 “Alright then, boys, we gonna kill some Nazis or what?”


	14. Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve gets her first letter from Jack.

_30/09/40_

_Ginny,_

_I’m doing well. I suppose I’m meant to ask how you’re doing next but that will just continue the chain of awkward small talk openings. I hope you’re good regardless of the small talk. This letter arrived a few days ago and I’ve been drafting what to write in my Spitfire in the time between then and now._

_I can’t say I missed France either but it’s still beautiful from the air. Not much has changed. Just constant missions to keep us busy. I’m glad you got some time with your family before you went away again, even if they did go a bit overboard with the symbolism. What you did for George too, it makes me feel privileged to know you. I’m sure both your parents and George’s appreciate what you’ve done for them._

_Although I will admit I’m offended that you would insult my tea making skills. When the war is over, you’ll have to show me how you make your so-called “proper brew”. I hope you aren’t deterred by the challenge. I would love to see you again._

_There hasn’t been any news of Farrier other than a sighting of Dunkirk beach. His engine was gone, he was running low on fuel when we were in the air. He shot down the first 109 we saw after picking up the men from the oil spill before he disappeared into enemy territory. There wasn’t a chute. Best case scenario: he died in a crash._

  _As I mentioned, I’ve been put back on regular duty so if you do see a Spitfire, there’s a chance it’s me. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you waving._

_Thank you for the flowers. They’re the exact same shade as my favourite colour, which you did remember correctly, my darling. I keep them with your letter in my pocket whenever I’m in the air._

_Your Jack_

 

* * *

 

  Genevieve smiled to herself, shielding the letter from the rain with her bent-over body. It felt good to hear from him after so long. It was a little odd to read something and have to insert his accent into the words but after a little practise she was able to replicate it in her mind, a massive comfort.

 “You alright, Lieutenant?” Commander Deaton asked, stepping between the sandbags into the sheltered area. He was Clouston’s replacement: a tubby bloke with a thick handlebar moustache.

 “Fine, sir,” Genevieve wiped her nose on her sleeve, feeling a cold coming on as she folded up the letter. It was private and as much as she liked Commander Deaton, he was still her superior and not her best friend.

 “Letter from your family?” Deaton took a seat opposite her, his cheery small talk incompatible with their situation.

 “No, a…” Genevieve paused to find the right words before settling on – “friend. He’s a pilot. Flies one of the Spitfires over Dunkirk.”

 “Ah.”

 The quietude was horrible.

 “Any letters for you, sir?”

 The quietude was better than small talk.

 Deaton’s chuckle was wheezy, his chest like a rattling engine, “No, none for me this time.”

 “Sorry.”

 Rain began to thwack down on them, trickling down their uniform and soaking through it. Genevieve pocketed her letter, patting it for reassurance. A flash cracked the sky followed by a low boom. The gathering clouds swirled together into one mass of bleak grey matter.

 “Bloody weather,” She commented, “S’almost like being back home.”

 “Almost,” repeated Deaton.

 Genevieve replayed the letter in her head. She wasn’t so sure about the nickname either but it was better than Gen. Or Jenny with a G. The final two words of the letter were prominent in her thoughts as she stared across the empty street. Her mind alternated the words at different speeds, as if the connotations Jack intended would become clear if she trilled them in her mind.

 “Your what?”

 “Hmm?”

 “You keep muttering ‘your’,” Deaton explained. Genevieve shifted on her crate.

 “Oh, right,” She cleared her throat, signalling that she would not be explaining herself. Perceptive as always, Deaton didn’t pursue an answer.

 Had she given Jack the wrong idea with the kiss at the end of her letter? Or on the platform? Jack didn’t seem disgusted or else he would’ve brought it up in the letter, or maybe not have written at all. Was it even the wrong idea? Both kisses were a conscious decision, not a last minute, spur-of-the-moment choice… right?

 “God, I hate everything,” She muttered to her disgust and Commander Deaton’s amusement, “Including this pathetic fallacy.”

 “Try not to think about it?” Deaton said in a tone of one realising what they were was stupid but only halfway through thus forcing them to finish and look like an idiot.

 “Great,” Genevieve snarked but followed his advice, planning out what she was going to write in her next letter as soon as she was in the dry. The sound of a 109 drone screeching overhead caused her shudder. It was the equivalent of nails on a blackboard. It didn’t deter her concentration however, instead helping her to come up with all the things she wanted to tell Jack lest it be the last letter she send.


	15. Wingmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They rely on each other in the sky. Now it’s time to test that on land.

**05/01/41**

**Dearest Jack,**

**I’ll let you get away with that nickname because I like you. Besides, it’ll be nice to give “Ginny” positive connotations to replace the others. Maybe I’ll tell you that story someday.**

**It wasn’t my intention to insult your honour or your tea-making skills. I don’t have any plans for after the war so I’ll definitely hold you to that tea contest. Let me know when you’re free.**  
 

* * *

 

 “What you sniggerin’ at?” Eastbury leant over Jack’s shoulder. Automatically, Jack slapped the letter against his chest.

 “None of your bloody business, that’s what,” He retorted.

 “Oooo tetchy much?” Eastbury headed over to the other pilots in the hanger. Jack rolled his eyes. These men were so deprived of entertainment that half of their time was spent on gossip. To be fair, Jack was the same. But he preferred the gossip and drama that he had resorted to for entertainment to be about others. Whenever he got a letter, the pilots swarmed on him like wasps to jam and he would swat them away with the envelope.

 Jack went back to his letter.

 

* * *

  
**Commander Deaton – Commander Clouston’s replacement - is sticking it out here in Dunkirk. He refuses to leave; he’s more stubborn than I am. We’ve managed to push back the German line though. Things are slowly starting to look up our end. I might even be allowed some time home to see my family.**

**I’m sure it must look so small from the air by comparison. It’s every kid’s dream to be able to fly – it’s even my nephew’s. What’s it like living out that dream up there?**

**I’m so sorry about Farrier. I’m not entirely sure what to write to make you feel better.**

**I miss you very much, Jack. It makes me smile just reading your letters but I wish I could see you again at a more certain date than the end of the war. Still, I hope you had a good new year.**

**Ginny x**

**PS. The flowers are Cosmos in case you were wondering.**

  

* * *

 

 Jack smiled; the New Year salutations were three months late but still endearing. Rereading the last paragraph, doubt settled in. Genevieve hadn’t been that open before. Sure he felt the same – and more – but he didn’t know how to take these words.

 Someone sat beside him so he quietly closed the letter. The new Fortis One, a man named Lester, was the seat’s occupant. He was a casual guy, in the air and on land, with a goatee and a habit for dropping philosophical quotes into any conversation.

 “Alright, Collins?” He greeted.

 “Hmmm,” Jack pressed a hand against his lips in contemplation, “You?”

 “As well as I can be.”

 Jack went back to the letter, staring at the signature at the bottom. Genevieve wasn’t all for the nickname but by the end of the letter she was using it. It was certainly sending mixed messages, especially with the kiss. The memory of dancing in his ma’s living room came to mind before it was sat on by denial. That didn’t mean anything. They were good friends, bonded by a shite experience.

 “How’s your girl anyway?” Lester interrupted his train of thought, “You’ve been staring at that letter for ages.”

 “She’s doing well, still in France,” Jack informed, “But she’s not my girl.”

 “Right, she’s one of those “I’m my own woman” kind of girl,” Lester said with resignation.

 “No, I mean she’s not my partner,” Jack rubbed his eyes. His letter was snatched from him and before he could grab it back, Lester was skimming over it.

 “Yeah, right, she mentions seeing you in person three times, says she misses you and wishes you a happy new year in March which you find hilarious for some reason.”

 “She sent it on the fifth of January, I’m just re-reading it.”

 “Oh, you’re re-reading a three month old letter?”

 “I miss her, is that a crime?” Jack wanted to swipe his letter back but was scared of tearing it.

 “ **I’ll let you get away with that nickname because I like you** ,” Lester quoted the first line with a raised brow. Without response, Jack opted for silent contempt.

 “Listen, Collins,” Lester leant forward with his elbows on his legs like he was giving a TED talk, “You’ve just gotta suck it up and tell her how you feel with something profound. She’ll eat up any confession you give as long as it’s all flowery.”

 “Who’s Collins confessing to?” Eastbury had returned with Bennett at his side. Internally groaning, Jack covered the rest of his letters with his navy-blue jacket. One was enough to start the gossiping, they didn’t need to see any more private possesions

 “Ginny.” Lester went to offer the letter for Bennett to read but Jack intercepted swiftly and folded it back up, stuffing it in his breast pocket.

 “That is none of your concern,” he said hotly. Eastbury wolf-whistled loudly at his reaction.

 “Lester’s right though,” He folded his arms like a tough parent and shook his head at Collins as though he’d caught him stealing sweet coupons, “Gotta tell her how you obsess over her letters and how her picture is a distraction in the air.”

 On the outside, Jack was fuming but his head was breaking down their statements to their building blocks of intent. He glanced down to stare at his reclaimed letter. Specifically at the final line. Maybe Lester was right. Maybe it was time for him to tell her.


	16. Shortbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A belated gift and a belated confession arrive to ease the boredom and worsen the nerves.

 On night duty, Genevieve surveyed the borders through her binoculars. Nothing. No doubt the Germans were enjoying the summer air while the rest of the world sat tensely awaiting their non-existent attack. Genevieve plonked down her binoculars and leant back on her sandbags. Her rifle was loaded and prepared, leaning on the wall next to her. Her partner Wilson was pacing up and down like he had ants in his pants.

 As boredom combined with tension hit its peak, Genevieve pulled the small brown package out of her pocket. It had arrived just before her shift. She decided to bathe in the anticipation a little before she opened.

 The twine was done up so tightly, Genevieve had to use her Swiss Army Knife to undo it. A small tin box fell out of the brown paper. Torn between which one to open first, Genevieve went for the letter, hoping it would shed some light on the package.

 

* * *

 

_14/08/41_

_Ginny,_

_Thank you for your photograph; I’m glad you had a good leave. I almost forgot how beautiful you are, what a crime. I have it on the windshield in my Spitfire. The other pilots were so jealous when they saw your picture, even more so when they heard you were a sniper in France. You have the opportunity to do the same with my photo (although I do look less dashing without the life jacket and sea water sticking my hair up). It was a reject from our official one. Farrier had cracked an awful joke from behind the camera and messed this one up. Had to wait two months to get it redone._

_The feeling of being in the air is indescribable. Words fail me like how they fail to define how I feel about you. Perhaps I can take you in the air someday and you can feel how I feel without the danger or threat. You’d love it. You really would._

_I’m glad my letters make you smile. Yours do the same to me. Many men at my end have lost hope but you keep me going, my darling. I would love to know this story behind the nickname. Maybe in your next letter, you could tell me._

_Your Jack x_

  _PS. I realised as I finished writing this that today is your birthday. Hope you enjoy these. My ma’s recipe so you don’t have to worry about it not being made “proper” by yours truly._

 

* * *

 

 Genevieve was pink by the first paragraph. The photograph was sent at Jack’s request; it wasn’t even a good one, just one of her at in the garden with her nephew that her mother wanted her to keep. Now Jack was showering her with compliments hundreds of miles away and she was reacting like a teenager.

 Jack sold himself short. The photo of him in his RAF number ones was attractive enough without the realisation that he was laughing in it, unable to hold the pose long enough for the photo. He was doubling over, looking past the camera – probably at Farrier – his smile wide and mid-laugh. Even in the dark and the poor quality of the photograph, it was still Jack.

 “What’s in the tin?”

 Genevieve looked up at her partner for the night. He was a bit simple, a bit blunt but not the worst person to be stuck on duty with. Also, he wasn’t the worst person to get in a thumb war with.

 “Dunno,” Genevieve left out the part of the letter that hinted at the contents being food, hoping to open it later and enjoy it in private. But Wilson sat opposite her on a bunch of sandbags expectantly.

 “Open it then.”

 “Alright,” Genevieve didn’t fancy irking him since they still had six hours on their shift. She prised the lid off whilst convincing herself that she was gonna open it eventually hence why it was not acceptable to bite Wilson’s head off. Pale crumbly biscuits lined the tin, dusted in sugar.

 Wilson perked up when he peeped over the edge, “Ooo, shortbread.”

 “Want a bit?” She offered out of courtesy. Wilson eagerly accepted a finger and stuffed it into his mouth.

 “Happy Birthday, me,” Genevieve popped a bit in herself. Crunching down, she reread the letter and grinned through the crumbs.

 “You read the back yet?”  Wilson said through a mouthful.

 “Pardon?”

 “The back,” Wilson mimed flipping something over, “There’s more writing.”

 “Oh, neat,” Genevieve said cheerily, turning over the page. Sure enough, a small paragraph – the handwriting a tad more erratic – was in the centre of the parchment.

 

* * *

 

_I have to admit now, I spend each day wishing that I’d kissed you at the harbour, in the B &B, when we were dancing, before we left each other, remembering how your lips felt against my fingers. I feel an ache in my chest every time I think about you. I miss you so much and I want you to know that I care about you more than a friend. What keeps me going is maybe when this is over, when I find you again, that I can hold you like how I did when we were dancing in the living room to Glenn Miller. I understand if you don’t feel the same and I’m sorry you had to find out via letter instead of me telling you in person. But please write back to me and tell me how you feel. I need to know._

 

* * *

  

 “What’s it say?” Wilson swallowed, reaching for more shortbread. Genevieve swiped the tin away and shut the lid down, much to Wilson’s indignation.

 “Just a PS. about his new address,” She slipped it back into its envelope. Removing the other letters from her pocket, she fumbled to untie the scraggly twine she had used to tie them up with. At least she had a tin to keep them in now.


	17. Eloquence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been over a year since their first meeting and two months since Collins’ confession. Maybe now is the time for both parties to have come clean.

 When the post arrived and Jack found one with his name scribbled on an envelope in a very familiar hand, he hoped to keep it secret. His declaration of affection was one that could definitely result in humiliation if it was denied and he did not want to be the centre of attention again. But alas, peace and quiet, it was not meant to be.

 “Guys! Collin’s girl wrote back!” Bennett yelled. Immediately the people of the room swarmed on the letter like wasps to jam to bombard Jack with questions.

 “What did she say?”

 “Did she reject him?”

 “Did she send another photo?”

 “Is it dirty?”

 “I ain’t opened the fucking letter yet!” Jack yelled over the rabble, swatting them away with the envelope, before composing himself, “I’d like to open this alone, thank you.”

 “But we were your wingmen! We convinced you to write!”

 “It’s definitely gonna be dirty.” The group jeered with filthy wide grins.

 Jack ignored them and pushed past to go to the bathroom to open the letter in private.

 “He’s gonna  _Jack_  off to it!”

 Spurred on by the jeering at the awful play-on words, Jack made a sweeping change in his destination and headed for his Spitfire instead. Plain view but a tad more privacy and it was more comfortable than the stinking loo. Awkwardly clambering into the cockpit, he slid the canopy over and locked it shut. He caught sight of Genevieve’s photo, her smile commemorated in ink as she pushed her nephew on the swing in one of the apple trees.

 The built-up nerves usually felt when he got a letter from Genevieve didn’t make him feel good through dragging them out. Instead of carefully peeling open the envelope, Jack practically shredded it open. His eyes flurried over the words so fast that he had to stop, take a breather and reread to actually take in what Genevieve had written.

 

* * *

 

 **04/10/41**  

**Jack,**

**I went bright red reading your letter. The soldier I was on duty with got a tad suspicious when I hid the letter. And don’t be ridiculous, you in your photo look as handsome as you did on the Moonstone. I keep it with all your letters in my pocket. They’re getting nearly full now; I keep them in the (now empty) tin.**

**Speaking of, thank you so much for the shortbread you sent me. I had to share it with the guy I was on duty with but I still managed to eat most of the tin. It was absolutely gorgeous. Tell your mother she’s a “proper” amazing cook.**

**I’d love to go up in your Spitfire. It’d be a dream come true; I think I’d cry if I got to see the world from up in the sky. No Germans would be an added bonus. I’d rather not see you get shot down again. One meet-cute at a time, don’t you agree?**

  **As for what you put on the back of the letter, you should know that I feel the same way, even after I swore I wouldn’t let this happen again. I despise the fact that it took me so bloody long to figure it out. Sorry I’m not as eloquent as you but I feel so much brighter when I think of you or look at your photo or reread your letters. I would give anything for this war to be over so I could see you again. Or go back in time so I could kiss you at all of those times you considered it.**

**If you’re still curious about the nickname back story, I’ll leave that until we meet, add it to the list of topics for a first date, maybe?**

**Ginny x**

 

* * *

 

 Knocking on the cockpit canopy jarred Jack out of the letter. Half the squadron were balanced on the wings and the ladder, peering into the cockpit - so much for privacy. Jack folded the letter back up to their indignation, sliding it with the others on his breast pocket.

 “Did you see what it says?” Lester’s voice was muffled as he straddled Bradbury on the wing.

 “No, his head was in the way,” Bennett grumbled from behind. With a half smile, Jack swiped the photo from its place in the windshield and knocked on it to signal he was getting out.

 “Alright, boys, nothing to see here,” He watched them slide off the wings and back to the floor from his position of power.

 “It must’ve been good or else he’d be mad,” Bennett hypothesised. A murmur of agreement swept through the group along with demands for him to spill the beans.

 Jack shrugged, climbing down and jumping off the last step, “I am going to get a drink.”

 He strode off out of the hanger and resisted the urge to click his heels together, leaving his comrades alone with their theories about the letter.

 “I can’t tell if it’s a drink of celebration or a drink to cheer himself up,” echoed down the hall. But Jack ignored it, turning the corner into an empty corridor to find a place on his own. It ended up being the toilet cubicle again.

 Reading the letter again didn’t take away the joy he felt bubbling in his stomach. Nor did the third or the fourth time. The letter was held directly in front of his eyes, magnifying the words and their impact somehow. Jack let out a long breath, still smiling as he held up his photo of Genevieve. If he held it the right way, it was almost as though she was smiling at him. And he hoped one day soon she could do it in person.


	18. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when things seem to be going well, fate has to destroy the small corner of happiness that a star-crossed couple occupy.

 Jack had been in the sleeping quarters when his world starting to collapse around him. He’d just received news that Bennett had been shot down on the journey back after the squadron had split into two. He became another Farrier; his family would not be able to bury anything other than the thought that Bennett was a pilot who died saving his country.

 His post was in his lap. It was something to look forward to and, while it ran the risk of never being opened if something happened to him, it made it all the better to read them when it was in the evening, setting him with good thoughts of home as he drifted off. Jack really needed the pick-me-up on this evening and not everyone had that luxury.

 Her photo was in his lap too, retrieved from its spot on his windshield. Tonight he needed her with him as he made his way through the hours unable to sleep.

 It started out well. He was put in a good mood by his mother’s letter as she rambled about the air raids, lack of washing and their neighbour’s cabbages. She knew that it was better to focus on the frivolous things as they served the greatest distraction. Her passion for these topics made Jack laugh and turned his head from his home sickness.

 Ethel had written one as well. Things at the hospital were going better but that was simply because she was more adept at her job now. Jack knew all about the many men still arriving at the already over-crowded hospitals. The rest of his family were still alive and kicking, just a bit busy to write.

 He deliberately saved the one with familiar penmanship and stationary until last. It was nearing the one year anniversary but they had yet to reunite. The war and conflicting schedules was postponing that date into the unknown future. But for now their letters would suffice. Jack opened up the envelope and slipped out the letter. The warning sign was there: the solitary paragraph with even shorter sentences.

 

* * *

**31/08/42**  

**Jack, my love,**

**I’m afraid I won’t be able to write as often as I have, much less as often as I’d like to. Something is about to happen but I can’t say what. I will write to you when I can but even as I write this I’m being ushered away from my post.**

**I love you so much.**

**Your Ginny x**

 

* * *

  
 His mood plummeted to the ground faster than a hit aircraft. The air was sucked out of his lungs as the reality of war punched him in the gut. Shock froze his movement, holding him against his will to remain pinned on his bed.

 When he finally regained control over his muscles, he flung himself off his bed and recovered his supply of papers and ink. Scribbling a quick and barely eligible reply, Jack forced the paper into the envelope and nearly sealed it before he saw the state of the paper, the smeared ink and the tiny paragraph that didn’t come close to saying what he wanted.

 He couldn’t just send this. The postman wasn’t coming for hours. He had time.

 For hours, Jack annotated the letter’s draft with additional comments and ideas; some were scrapped while others were expanded on and heavily sugar-coated. He rambled on and on, not even sure where he was taking the letter’s contents. His hand was working automatically; his brain had no input on what was scratched into the paper. Only after Jack had scribbled it down did he realise that he was talking about having children. He didn’t cross it out. Instead he circled it for his daydreams later.

 When it finally came down to writing the final draft, his hand was stiff with lactic acid but he was determined to get it done before sunrise. He gave the letter every last ounce of his energy, not lifting his eyes from the papers – straining in the dim room – until he’d finished. After the ink dried, he folded the paper and held it against his lips.

 Using his last stamp, he sealed the envelope. The sun stretched its ray through the slit in the curtains of the dorm after an unknown passage of time and he sprung out. With dark circles prominent under his eyes, he handed over the letter to the postman and watched him leave

 Upon returning to his bed he collapsed with all her letters pressed in his chest, the blankets drawn up to his nose. He didn’t dare to close his eyes in case sleep come back with a hungry vengeance. As he stared without reading at any of the letters he flicked through and finished with her photo, Collins began the waiting game once again.


	19. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve trips at one of the final hurdles.

_03/10/42_

_My darling Ginny,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, regardless of when. I will see you again. We have a tea competition, remember? We will see each other, I promise. You’re my only solace in this war. I love you too, more than I can bear, more than I could ever imagine loving someone._

_I know I’ve written the nickname before but it feels nice to be able to write “darling” now. Never before did I understand why couple gave each other excessive pet names. Words fail how it makes me feel when I write to you. When I see you again, I’ll be able to show you. Actions speak louder than words after all._

_I remember you mentioning your favourite pieces. I’m not the most avid fan of art, being a humble man of the world, but the way you describe these paintings make me wish I was so I could talk more about them with you. It’s so enchanting to hear your enthusiasm for the things you love. Is Starry Night your favourite painting then? I guess mine would be Sunflowers if what you say about the colours is true. Perhaps we can go back to France when this is over and see it in real life._

_Since we’re planning things, first date wise I was thinking a picnic. I don’t know if you have hay fever or anything but there’s a nice park near my old flat. I figured it be a nice spot to be together since not many people go there so there’s privacy. If you don’t fancy that or you’re put off by the prospect of me preparing food, we could go to a café. There’s one that makes pretty good scran, especially at breakfast._

_There’s this fair as well, just a small af-fair (I hope that made you laugh, you are enchanting when you laugh) but it’s very entertaining. My favourite was always the coconut shy because I’d always get it to myself when I won – and I always won. You strike me as a Big Wheel kind of girl. Let me tell you, it’s not as impressive as being in a Spitfire which I am still taking you up in when this is all done. I like candy floss a lot; you mentioned before that you did to. I promise I’ll share mine with you when we go._

_I know I’m just fantasising right now about what we can do but it feels nice, planning out what we’re going to do some day. I will wait for you, my love, however long it takes._

_Your Jack x_

 

* * *

 

 Genevieve reread the letter with some difficulty before stuffing it back in her tin, fighting back tears. She wasn’t coming back and she knew it. She wished she’d known sooner so she could’ve told Jack. If he was true to his word, he’d be waiting for her for a long time.

 Pressing a kiss against the cool metal, Genevieve put the tin back into her breast pocket and advanced into the musty dusty building. It was hard to focus. Petrified didn’t cover how she was feeling, not by a long shot, and for once Jack’s letters did not calm her.

 Every noise that reached her ears made her freeze. She was barely making any process. But she continued to hold her advantage of stealth. Scurrying around the complex like a rat would certainly destroy any chance she had. Not like she had many in the first place. 

 There was radio silence. She didn’t know where the rest of her comrades were or if they’d made it back to their post, if any progress had been made on pushing back the line or if the realistic outcome was the result.

 Then she heard it: the worst sound of all to the left. Something thunked against the floor and rolled nearby.

 Genevieve dove to the floor in the brace position. The explosion that rang out shot shrapnel into her leg with a thunderous boom. Bullets started raining down on her position. She leper-crawled to find cover, grunting in pain as the sharp metal fragment stuck in her left calf, tears forming. Her fingers fumbled with her rifle, temporarily forgetting her training. But she managed to get the shooter in her line of sight and fired. Simultaneously, the shooter sprayed rapid fire across her hiding spot before falling away. His head was gone as he fell back.

 A sharp pain that spread like wildfire across her torso caused her vision to fuzz at the edges. She slapped a hand over her mouth, hiding her cry of fear. Tears flowed as she scrambled in pain to move out of view of the Germans. She cried in her jacket lapels as she checked her wound. Her trembling hand came away from the entry hole covered in blood. Gulping for air, she felt her back, coming back with more blood. The bullet had passed through her shoulder, avoiding her heart but probably shattering her collarbone.

 Genevieve panted desperately for air, her cries clogging up her throat. Another explosion erupted behind her head, colliding with her head. Screaming like a child, she curled up into a foetus position, the pain overwhelming as she felt the blood spread across her uniform.

 “I don’t want to die,” she wept, her begging muffled into her sleeve as she pulled her knees to her chest. Her peripherals were completely black now, closing in on the rest of her stare, her eyelids drooping.

 All she could think of was the last letter. All the things that she and Jack were going to do together: their first date, going in his Spitfire, making it to the end of the war, finally seeing Starry Night, kissing him at last.

 Her fingers juddered as she reached into her right breast pocket and pulled out the tin. With the rest of her effort, she pried the lid off and the letters scattered out with the photo landing on top. Bloodied hands grasped for it, bringing it closer as Genevieve fought to keep her eyes open.

 “I’m sorry,” she rolled onto her back with a whimper, her head lolling to the side. The letters were on her chest, loose leafs out of their tin. Jack’s photo was in her hand, blood smeared across the bottom as she held right in front of her eyes. He was almost there, right in front of her, holding her in his arms again, whispering words of comfort and love. His beautiful smile in sepia was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes. And Genevieve didn’t feel any more pain.


	20. Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war is done. Jack finally learns of what happened to Genevieve.

 Jack leant his head against the window, the chatter amongst soldiers tuned out like a weak radio signal. He subconsciously rubbed the bandage that tightly bound his broken fingers. The shrill whistle of the train and the squealing of brakes took a while to break him out of his trance. The station came into view so he lifted his head off the glass pane, smoothing out his hair.

 The war was over. He was going home. His ma was waiting at the station for him. All his siblings were back from their respective stations. His father was brought home a year prior and survived the bombings. Jack was alive. He’d survived the explosion that destroyed his base. He had minimal injury. He should be happy.

 His bundle of letters was in front of him, still in his cigarette case. Cigarettes didn’t really calm him down anymore so something that did took their place. Taking the case in his hand, Jack pressed it against his lips. The photo was on top but he didn’t trust himself to look at it without flinching. Her final letter was slightly crushed at the bottom, the small paragraph of warning crumpled. It was his least favourite letter.

 The train stopped and the sea of green uniforms fought to get onto the platform first. Jack was on the wrong side of the train to watch the platform so he dropped and stared at his hands on the table. His memory failed to capture the image perfectly but he could almost see what was prominent in it: the ceramic mugs, the makeshift pillow, the tufts of damp brown hair. He tried to picture her voice telling him to keep his blanket, to get some sleep, but it didn’t sound quite right.

 The image faded as he stood then stumbled onto the station platform. He was pushed on all sides by family members, partners and friends of the soldiers but he was nearly numb to their shoving. His eyes tiredly scanned the platform for a familiar face. Part of him regretfully was searching for her but he knew that she was almost definitely not going to be there. And the “almost” kept him fruitlessly searching.

 “Jack?”

 There.  

 “Ma,” He breathed, finally feeling something when Cora stood before him. A warm tingle grew in his stomach as he stumbled over to his mother and clung to her tightly. It took a moment for him to recognise that tears – his tears – were soaking his mother’s pea coat. His big clumsy hands clutched her shoulders in criss-cross.

 “My boy, look at you. Oh you’re ok now,” She held his face, wiping away his tears. In spite of his towering height and age of thirty years, he felt so small. It was like he was five again and he’d scraped his knee. Ma would kiss his cheek and hold him until he felt better. Except now he didn’t know if he could ever feel better.

 “All my babies, safely home,” Cora whispered then she saw his bandage, “What the hell happened to your hand?”

 “Just got it trapped in a door.”

 “You idjit,” She lightly tapped his cheek and Jack gave a short puff of air to show amusement, “Now, I have somethin’ for you.” She fumbled in her pockets, her accent thickening as she muttered angrily, unable to find it.

 “What is it?” Jack sniffed, brushing away another tear.

 “Post, I think it’s about Genevieve,” Cora replied. Jack tensed visibly, his legs locking.

 “Ma, not now, please,” He whispered, his voice thick.

 “Nonsense, Jack, I got this years ago and you will open it.”

 Without any energy to argue, Jack awaited the bright yellow card to be retrieved from his mother’s pockets.

 “There,” She held out an envelope.

 Jack’s heart started. It wasn’t a telegram signifying the death of a soldier. It was a real letter. He inspected it. It was different to what Genevieve’s set was. Instead of cream card, it was white and flimsy. The return address stamped on the back was a hospital. There was something weighted inside.

 “Jack, open the damn letter. I’ve waited two years to know what it says!” Cora shook her son’s shoulder.

 His hands too tired, too tense to shake, Jack lifted off the envelope flap and pulled out a sheet of the same weak paper. He took a deep breath to brace himself and began to read. The colour drained from his face as his eyes scanned across the lines until he was paler than the paper. His face contorted itself into one of agony before Cora’s very eyes.

 “Jack?” She touched her son’s face again. Jack’s legs dropped from underneath him, a shockwave shooting up his knees as he landed on the concrete of the platform, and he let out a loud cry of anguish. Aghast at this, Cora knelt in front of him, clutching his hands. They were lost in the seas of soldiers.

 “Jack, what is it? What’s wrong with Genevieve?” She demanded, her own voice filled with fear. Instead of answering, Jack let out a low moan, holding his mother’s hands to his head as he cried like a helpless child.

 “Jack, we have to move,” Cora urged, dragging her son to his feet and leading him towards the waiting room. Surprisingly, it was empty. No one left to wait for their soldiers to return home. Clutching the letter to his chest, Jack fell into a chair with a gasp for breath and started sobbing uncontrollably. He couldn’t get any words out amidst his wailing and nearly couldn’t breathe; his emotions were crushing his chest.

 “Jack, tell me what’s wrong!” Cora snatched the letter from him and he let out a howl as if she’d ripped off one of his limbs before trying to muffle his sobs into his sleeve but he couldn’t stop. The envelope was clenched between his two fingers, just shy of being crushed in his fist.

 Cora eased it from his fingers and took his hand, ignoring the pain as he grappled with it. Taking his non-verbal advice, she took a moment to compose herself then began to read the letter. 

 

* * *

 

**22/06/43**

**My love, Jack,**

**I’m in a hospital in England as I’m writing this. I was shot in the left shoulder, got shrapnel in my leg and hit in the head during a shift gone wrong. I will be alright. Miraculously all the metal dodged my vital arteries. I’ve had to re-teach myself how to keep my hand steady, I’m going to have chronic pain for the rest of my life, I had to get some of my head shaved for the operation and I may need a cane but I’m alive. No brain damage and no lobotomies needed and the shaved part is hidden under the rest of the hair. Just six more months of bed rest.**

**Commander Deaton was killed in action. So was most of my unit. There are four of us who survived. Apparently, they found me on their retreat and managed to get me to safety before I bled out. They all received bullet wounds on their run out but they saved me. We’re in the same ward, trying to get better. Once we’re healed, we’ll be home for a few days before heading back to help with the war effort.**

**I’ve been granted leave for the remainder of the war. I’m useless to the forces now. So I’ll be in England for the foreseeable future (unless the army get desperate but that’s unlikely) I’ll probably end up in a factory. Maybe I’ll stick it out with my family at the farm. It’s safe in the country and they’ll certainly have chores for me.**

**I wish I could’ve written sooner but I only got this paper yesterday after correcting the tremor in my hand. I don’t even know if you’re still alive. I hope to God that you are. I heard your location had been bombed so I wrote to your mother’s address so there’s at least a chance that you get this letter.**

**I saw these outside my window in the herb garden. One of the nurses said, when they are gifted to a loved one, it represents the notion of walking together hand in hand and express the joys that your love and life can bring. I think it summarises my feelings fairly well. What I wrote in my last letter wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. I hope it wasn’t for you either. You have no idea how far your final letter got me and I pray with all my being that you are still here so we can reunite. Please, stay safe, my love.**

**Your Ginny x**

 

* * *

 

 “Jack, did you read this properly?” Cora said, her voice far-away in the distant. Jack nodded; his face was sodden with tears.

 “She’s alive,” He whispered with a gulping gasp, “She’s alive.”

 Cora looked at her son with almost angry confusion, “That’s good! That’s good, you silly boy! You worried me! You made me think she was dead!”

 Finally looking back at the envelope, Jack took it from Cora and shook it, still expecting dog tags of a dead soldier to tumble out. But sure enough, there were two dark pink cosmos that smelt faintly of chocolate pressed into the other shitty sheet of paper. He held it against his face, breathing deeply and smiling for the first time in months. Years.

 “I have to go to the hospital. I need to find her,” He sniffed, taking the letter back from his ma and slotting them into the envelope.

 “Oh no,” Cora yanked him to his feet, “You are too in a state to do anything.”

 Jack was stricken, “But I need to see her! I have to know she’s ok!”

“As much as I love Genevieve, your true love can wait another day. You’re comin’ home, you’re havin’ some food, you’re getting in that bath – because you’re stinkin’ up a storm – and you’re gonna get some rest.  _Then_  you can find her.” 


	21. Forage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack fears he’ll go insane if he doesn’t find Genevieve soon. Thankfully, she’s left her mark on others as well.

 Jack tapped his foot against the immaculate strips of the ground floor, his eyes scanning over the return address. This was the right location. Taking a deep breath, Jack approached the hospital’s sign directing him to the second floor. His legs were trembling so, almost ready to give out with nerves, but he made it there and stood before the receptionist desk.

 “Hi,” He shifted on his feet, his voice rushed as he pulled out the envelope, “I was wondering if you could help me find someone. Her name was Genevieve Hastings. She was a patient here a few years ago. Uh, June 1943 actually. I need to know her address.”

 The receptionist held down her hand, “Ok sir, I need you to slow down.”

 “I just need the address of a patient who was here.”

 “We don’t give out the personal details of our patients,” The receptionist said in a patronisingly sympathetic tone, going back to her filing. Jack swallowed back his groan of annoyance and slight pain before speaking again, slower now.

 “No, you don’t understand, I need to find this person – Genevieve Hastings, just her address.”

 “Again, sir, I’m sorry but we can’t disclose th-”

 “Genevieve Hastings?”

 Jack and the receptionist looked up to see an older nurse on the opposite side of the receptionist’s desk. She was staring back with a joyous smile on her face. A smile of recognition.

 “Yes,” Jack stumbled over to her whilst tugging open his cigarette case, “Genevieve Hastings, this is her.”

 He struggled to pull out her photo, his hands were shaking so much, but he found it and held it out to the old nurse.

 “Oh, I know Genevieve! She was in my ward while she was here a year ago!” The old woman clasped her hands together, “Sweet girl, very sad.”

 “Do you think you could give me her address?” Jack asked hopefully.

 “Of course! We write to each other from time to time. Come with me,” She touched the back of his hand gently and then strode off. Scrambling to catch up, Jack clasped his cigarette case shut and slid it in his breast pocket. He caught up with her but although his surge in pace only lasted a few seconds he found himself out of breath.

 “You don’t look like you’ve slept in an age… What did you say your name was again? I’m Phyllis Thatcher.”

 “Uh, Jack. Jack Collins.”

 “Really?” Phyllis stopped in her tracks, her face animated, “You’re Jack?”

 “Yes,” Jack said, a little dumbly.

 Phyllis started to laugh. It was croaky and high-pitched, like when one turns on a car engine and it splutters before coming to life. She continued her walk and left Jack in her path, confused but eager to understand why she was laughing.

 “Oh, Genevieve never shut up about you. First thing she did when she woke up was ask for you. Well, your letters. She was desperate for them, like she needed them to live.”

 Jack’s cheek flared up as he let out a laugh of nervousness. This was the confirmation he wanted, that Genevieve felt the same way he did to some extent at least.

 “She was quiet a lot after that but when she spoke,” Phyllis smiled fondly, “She could talk for hours, I’ll bet, about family and her home but mostly you.”

 “What did she say?”

 “I don’t remember a lot. But she was nervous a lot of the time. Something about projecting her feelings onto you and knowing that wasn’t true only too late. Tragic.”

 Phyllis stopped, “I’m sorry, that’s not what you want to hear. I should’ve made something up.”

 “No, no, it’s ok. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Jack excused. Phyllis stopped at a door with a blacked out window.

 “This is my shared office, although you’re not supposed to come in.”

 “I’ll wait here,” Jack nodded obediently.

 “She stayed here. That bed there.” Phyllis pointed to an open door before disappearing into her office.

 Jack cautiously stepped into the room, his boots and his breathing making their mark in the room.  While the ward was not empty, the bed – her bed - was now with its sheets crisp and neatly folded over. Stinking of antiseptic, the room also bore a hint of the flower garden wafting through the open window adjacent to the bed.

 As he made it to that window, the familiar smell of cosmos reached him stronger than before. It was so much more beautiful with the flower alive. Her voice was faint in the back of his head talking about these flowers but he could still remember her faint tones. Shaking fingers reached out and touched the fragile petals blooming in the window box. There were more in the garden below, a sheer drop to paradise in this blank place. He was so close to her, he could feel it. Just a little longer and the nerves building would make way for her

 “Her address changed recently. Moved away for some reason,” Phyllis mused as she entered the ward, “Here you go.”

 “Thank you so much,” Jack took the slip of paper, another address scratched into it. He pressed it into his pocket with a nod and turned to the flowers once more.

 “Jack?” Phyllis reached out and shut the window, for the cold September air was reaching the patients.

 “Get some sleep before you see her. She’ll be worried sick about you looking like that,” She advised before turning to another patient, “Oh, Oswald, you’re burning up…”

 Her voice faded down the corridor as Jack power-walked out of the ward and back to his car. A nap would have to wait.

 On the drive over to the library, he forced his lunch down his throat – consisting of a sandwich and an apple that his Ma had made him take. He checked the maps available to him through the local resources; he discovered that the address was in North London, mere miles away from him. Why would she risk moving to a place filled with such danger? Why not stay with her family?

 These questions were added to his very long list as he copied out some directions and headed back to London. He had about enough petrol to make it to the new address then his but he wouldn’t be able to drive for another week since rationing was still a major part of life. But he didn’t want to wait until Monday to follow this up.

 Within two hours, he arrived. Half the buildings were demolished by the air raids. Driving slowly, Jack took in the dilapidated street, praying that Genevieve’s building would still be intact. Counting down the numbers until he reached the right one and he sighed as he saw it stood strong, a reflection of what the street used to be.

 A young woman in a light brown trench coat exited the building and began to cross the road in Jack’s direction, her heels clacking with the cement road. He was sure this was Genevieve’s building but it wouldn’t hurt to check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the original concept for this chapter: it was initially the final part and it would reveal Ginny is actually dead. Since the letter Collins got was dated in June 1943, this chapter would reveal that she was killed in the bombings. It was gonna be great cus everyone’s response to the last chapter was “THANK GOD SHE’S ALIVE” and the twist would murder everyone. However, you will be thankful that I rewrote some stuff.


	22. Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignorance is bliss and some people prefer to keep things that way. Some people break that ignorance for them.

 Mornings were always a pain. It took at least half an hour to adjust to the new aches and groans of her body everytime she woke. It wasn’t aided by Lilly’s appearance at Genevieve’s new flat. She’d claimed that she had only popped over for tea and had ended up re-arranging the flat twice and critiquing Genevieve’s choice in career for fifteen minutes. Only now was she going to pick up her son.

 “Are you sure you’re fine?” Lilly slowly pulled on her light brown trench coat to delay her departure.

 Genevieve rolled her eyes at her sister’s persistent questions, wishing she would just leave her be.

 “Yes, I’m sure, Lilly,” She ushered her out of the door with the end of her stick (which she’d rather taken a liking to after a year of distaste), “Now go pick up your son! I have to finish those manuscripts now.”

 “Ok, well you can let me know if you need anything and I’ll be right over,” Lilly continued with her voice speeding up until Genevieve closed the door. With raised eyebrows and a short exhale through the nose, Genevieve listened to her sister walking down the stairs and safely out of range. After a brief breather, she shuffled back into her drab flat, the telltale three stomps echoing about it.

 It was small with minimal effort put into decorating, furniture and “homey-touches” as Lilly had put it. The beige and cream walls really juxtaposed the faded green sofa, dotted with stains and lumps, and the tiny desk in the corner. The view from the window wasn’t much better, the dreary street below faced gaps in the terraced houses where bombs had found their target.

 Lowering herself into a chair, Genevieve leant the cane against the desk and began the extravagant cover of a card, her quill twirling around with practised control. Thank God, she was right-handed or else her injury would’ve made her a teacher. Lord knows the length her patience would need to be to deal with those shits on the daily.

 Thank God, also, that the war was over. Of course, the damage was still present and would take years, nee decades, to recover but the fighting was done and Genevieve had made it back home almost in one piece. Her arm was still a pain sometimes but bearable and her cane, while certainly helpful, was not a permanent fixture. Though there was still a piece she hoped had come home too. But ignorance was bliss and she hadn’t dared to make the trek down to South London, all to find out that he hadn’t returned and that he never would.

 Bittersweet nostalgia caught her off-guard again as she saw the tin underneath her pencil pot. Inside, letters tied up in the same frayed twine. Amidst them were a photograph and a folded-up newspaper clipping from the Dunkirk evacuation, yellow with age, dotted with plumes of scarlet. It wasn’t like Genevieve missed the war. It’s just what got her through it hadn’t transcended well into normal life.

 “Shit,” Genevieve lifted the quill off the paper, a large blot of gold ink pooling over the paper. Well, that was a waste of coupons. She swiped up some blotting paper and scraped up some ink to save it.

 A knock at the door caused her to groan. What had Lilly forgotten now? Probably her glasses. Or her bus pass. Or her coupons. Anything to see Genevieve for a few seconds longer.

 She called, “Give me a second.” Replacing her pen, Genevieve dabbed the paper in an attempt to save some more of the ink. Then she wiped her hands on a handkerchief before standing and meandering over to the door as sluggish as possible – something she could blame on her cane. With a sigh, she flung the door open, ready for fake smiling and high pitched gossiping for another hour at least.

 There stood Jack Collins in a shirt, ironed trousers, braces and brogues. He was clutching a leather suitcase in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other, a coat over his arm. His blond hair was untangled in the same hairstyle, longer than it was on the Moonstone. His eyes, even with the slight bags under them and more crinkles in the corners, were the same cornflower blue.

 “Afternoon.” 

 His voice, oh God, his voice.  Genevieve’s expression faded from one of shock to one of absolute adoration, nearly melting at his mere presence. He was really right in front of her.

 “You’re alive,” She breathed, a short laugh of disbelief escaping her lips. She had to lean against the door for added support, her legs almost giving out beneath her. The feeling indescribable and she’d never felt it before, not even in France. Then she remembered her nosy as fuck neighbour was inevitably going to appear beside them.

 “Come in,” She stepped aside. Jack smiled gratefully and entered the flat, taking his shoes off. Unsure of how to react, Genevieve followed him into the kitchen and, leaning her cane against the counter, began fidgeting with the whisk. The noise it made as she spun it caught Jack’s attention so she tossed it over at the grill. Well, she tried to. She missed and it clattered against the enamel floor.

 “Sorry for dropping in like this,” Jack apologised with an unintentional pun, looking around the adjoining sitting room. This wasn’t what he’d expected; even by shit flat standards this was very poor.

 “No worries, uh,” Genevieve rested against the countertop, staring at the whisk before looking back up at him, “Uh, I just can’t believe you’re here.”

 Jack shrugged, a bit awkward in the centre of the flat, still holding his case in front of him. Suddenly struggling to breath, Genevieve moved around the kitchen furniture, support be damned, and threw her arms around Jack’s neck. Throwing his case aside, Jack pulled her tight against his body and cradled her head. The two released their breath in loud shaking sighs, grabbing at each other to hold them closer.

 Neither spoke for the words they’d wanted to say face-to-face were clogged up their throats with their sobs. Tears rolled down their faces. Their breathing became gulps for air as they clung to one another desperately. Genevieve raked her fingers through Jack’s hair, gripping it tightly with her other arm wrapped around his shoulders. With a quiet groan, Jack buried his face into her shoulder with his hands grasping her waist and torso.

 After a good five minutes of hugging – which is lot for standing pressed up against the same person – the two pulled away, but kept the close proxemics. Their foreheads were pressed against one another. They just stared at one another and took in their face for the first time in five years. Genevieve’s hands shifted around to hold Jack’s face, his jawline resting in her palms as he instinctively leant into her touch.

 “You’re so beautiful,” Genevieve’s voice was soft and gentle, as if raising it would break the moment.

 “So are you. More than I remembered. More than any picture,” Jack replied, pressing a kiss on Genevieve’s wrist.

 “Christ, I missed you so damn much.” She still wasn’t quite managing to catch her breath.

 “I missed you too, Ginny.” Jack’s gaze flicked down to her lips then back up to her stare. A silent question for something he’d wanted to do since they had met.

 “Please,” Genevieve begged, her voice so quiet that Jack barely heard it. But it was enough. Tilting his head, he closed the gap between them. Jack’s lips tasted faintly of strawberry jam. They were soft, if a little chapped, against Genevieve’s. She pulled him closer, her hands down on his neck, breaking the kiss only to deepen the next. Five years, they had waited five years. Their desire for each other grew from want to insatiable thirst.

 Jack’s hands dipped down and, with a noise of surprise and a grunt of pain from Genevieve, lifted her up onto the countertop. He accidentally knocked their heads as he sat her down. Murmuring an apology with his lips brushing against Genevieve’s, Jack smiled at her giggle before he reconnected their lips. The kiss became heated, their tongues clashing with breathy moans. Hands roamed over each other’s bodies – so eager to learn what they liked but never pressured to do anything other than hold their beloved.

 BANG! BANG! BANG! A series of knocks jumped the pair apart. Praying whoever it was would go away, Genevieve waited, still glowing in the arms of her lover. Unfortunately her prayers weren’t answered for another set of knocks followed.

 “Who is it?” Genevieve shouted with a veiled tone of annoyance.

 “Lilly!”

 “Shit.”

 Jack grinned at her whispered response, those delicious dimples of his peeping out. With a quick gesture to suggest he should sort out his hair, Genevieve kissed his cheek briskly before sliding off the counter. Immediately Jack passed her cane to her. Nodding her silent thanks, Genevieve walked over to open the door – only a fraction though.

 “What is it?” She asked, fighting her sister who was trying to push the door open further.

 “I wanted to know what the man wanted,” She hissed, leaning closer.

 “The man,” Genevieve repeated blankly.

 “This blond, Scottish guy. Real handsome, said he was RAF and he was looking for you. I told him where you were then I thought stranger danger, no matter how handsome-”

 “Lilly, he’s still in the flat,” Genevieve silenced her sister, “He just wanted to sign some stuff over from France, ok? In fact we must be getting on.”

 “I can come in if you like.”

 “No, I would not like.” Genevieve quickly corrected herself, “It’s just gotta be done so I’d like to get it over with.”

 “Ok, let me know if you need anything,” Lilly grinned obliviously before leaving again. Shutting the door, Genevieve restrained head-butting the door and got back to her guest.

 “I’m sorry about her. She’s clingy.”

 “That’s ok,” Jack turned Genevieve’s head back to face him. He’d failed to tidy up his hair, a mess by comparison to earlier with his fringe now a single curl in the centre of his forehead. She brushed it out of the way.

 “I’m so glad you’re here, Jack,” She muttered, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, “How long  _are_  you here?”

 “I, uh, didn’t really have a plan after this,” Jack said sheepishly, “I was a bit occupied with finding you. I was gonna get a room at the B&B down the road.”

 “Do you want to stay over tonight?” Genevieve asked, her voice breaking with nerves, “You don’t have to-”

 Jack interrupted, “That would be nice. If you’re ok with it.”

 “I’m absolutely ok with it,” She couldn’t smile any wider if she tried, “We’re doing this relationship all topsy turvy.”

 “I’ll take you out on that date as soon as I’ve caught up on sleep.”

 “It’s ok, my love. I can wait a little longer.” She tenderly kissed him again. Accepting the invitation, Jack mumbled a thank you against her lips and pulled her against him with his palms pressed into her back. They stayed close after pulling back, faces paralleled and smiling upon one another.

 Jack touched his forehead to hers, clearly exhausted, “I know it’s only half four but I’m dead on my feet. Can I…”

 “Sure, bedroom’s over there, bathroom’s next door. I’ll make you something to eat.”

 “Thank you, my darling,” Jack pressed one more lingering kiss on her lips, hesitantly pulling away before dragging his suitcase into the bathroom. Tapping her feet giddily, Genevieve set about making cheese on toast. Not the best meal but she didn’t have much in her new kitchen anyway.  Remembering one of her favourite topics of discussion in their letters, she made them both teas – black for her, peppermint for him. He was lucky Lilly liked the same shit as him.

 She was just pulling the toast out of the oven grill when Jack appeared behind her in drawstring pyjama bottoms and a cotton button up. His bare feet slapped against the tiles as he crossed the room to rest his chin on her shoulder.

 “Fancy eating in bed? I made proper tea as well,” She offered.

 “You and your proper tea,” Jack mocked as he basked in her touch, “I can stay on the couch tonight.”

“No, you said it yourself, you’re dead on your feet; you can stay in my bed.”

 Jack pressed a quick kiss on her cheeks as she loaded a tray, the smell of hot cheese wafting up to their nostrils. After so long eating cold rations and lukewarm coffee, the hot food was a nice change and kick-started the stomach rumbling. With their tea and their toast, Jack and Genevieve sat criss-cross apple sauce on the bed, spraying crumbs as they talked about the last two years.

 It felt like it did before, as if their time apart hadn’t impacted their dynamics in any way that wasn’t positive. Genevieve was much more alive, like her letters and during their dance. Jack was just as open with his affections as before, stopping every now and again to remind Genevieve that he cared for her, missed her and required a few kisses as tariff for the conversation to continue.

 “You remember how I like my tea,” Jack cheered after taking a sip.

 “Yeah, like shite.”

 “Hey, I didn’t come here to be insulted,” He grumbled through a mouthful of food. It was hard to stay serious with that image, especially in his pinstripe pyjamas and his fluffy hair.

 Genevieve gave a shit-eating grin, the biggest in a long while, “Couldn’t resist.”

 “S’a good thing I love you then.” Jack stopped to see Genevieve’s reaction as he realised what he’d said. Something so frequently written in their letters had just been said for the first time. And it was a slip-up.

 “I love you too.”

 Jack could’ve cried with happiness; in fact he nearly did. He covered his mouth to stop himself from tearing up, letting out the laugh of relief instead of the whimper. It sounded so much better hearing her say those words than they were on paper. And those words on paper had got the two combined through four years of war.

 Moved by his response, Genevieve leant over and kissed his temple with her hand holding his cheek. Jack followed her subconsciously as she pulled away. He went red once he’d realised what he’d done. However he had no reason to be embarrassed. Careful not to knock over the tray or put too much pressure on her leg, Genevieve knelt in front of Jack and kissed him again. Dropping his food on his plate, Jack shuffled closer and pulled Genevieve onto his lap. His thumbs rubbed her waist, pushing the shirt material aside so he could feel her bare skin.

 Genevieve shivered, threading her fingers into his hair and forming fists to tug on it. Jack let out a groan, his tongue slipping into her mouth. Impulsively, Genevieve shifted her hips which caused both of them to let out low animalistic moans. Jack’s hands slid up her back, her shirt catching on his fingers. Her exposed skin broke out in a path of goose-bumps.

 What they were doing suddenly dawned on Jack and he pulled away with his hands held up in surrender, looking down with shame.

 “Shit, I’m so sorry, Ginny. I didn’t meant to push, I don’t-”

 “It’s ok.” Genevieve cupped his face and held him close, both still trying to slow their breathing, “We have the rest of our years to make up for five.”

 Jack was relieved at this reassurance, placing his head in the crook of her neck and fingering the neckline on her loose shirt. Then he paused. He tugged the collar back to reveal lumps of burned skin sealed together to form an ugly scar below her right collarbone.

 “What…?”

 “I got shot in Germany. I don’t know if you got my-”

 “Letter, yeah, I did,” Jack ran his finger over the lumpy skin then moved it to her left thigh, “And you hurt your leg too. I hope you killed that shithead.”

 “I did. Headshot.”

 “That’s my girl.”

 “Your girl,” Genevieve repeated slowly with a questionable tone. Jack looked back up at her.

 “Yeah, my girl.”

 “Your girl,” Genevieve said with a playful tone, poking his dimples. With those combined with his shining eyes, mussed-up hair and his flushed cheeks, Jack looked radiant in the dingy bedroom. The pair beamed at each other, their foreheads back together. Their noses grazed each other in a slow-mo Eskimo kiss.

 “Your hair’s shorter,” He twirled one lock around his finger before combing his fingers through her hair.

 “Yeah, took a while for it to grow, ‘specially around the scar.”

 At the mention of the wound, Jack felt the lump that had risen over the rest of the scalp.

 “Enough about me; what happened to your hand?”

 “Got it slammed in a car door.”

 “Smart,” Genevieve lifted the hand to her lips and kissed his fingers’ bandage – the same place she kissed when they last saw each other. Careful not to cause her shoulder any pain, she curled up in his side as he settled into the mattress, and traced random shapes in his shirt. She felt a rustle of paper in Jack’s breast pocket.

 “Oh, I forgot that was there,” Jack pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. The paper bore the pressed cosmos Genevieve had sent in her first letter to him, the burnt orange jumping out against the off-white card.

 “My favourite colour, and my favourite flower,” Jack regarded his possession with a dream-like daze then looked to Genevieve with the same expression, “I can’t ever thank you enough, Ginny. You saw me through that shit show with your letters and your photograph. When you didn’t write, I just kept reading your old ones and imagine you saying the words, testing them out before you wrote them.” Jack cursed himself as he started to tear up again.

 “Oh darling,” Genevieve nestled closer to him, choking up a little too, “It’s ok, it’s alright. You did the same for me… The first I thought when I woke up from surgery was if I still had your letters. I barely made it through the last few years without contact with you.”

 “I cried when my ma gave me your last letter on the platform,” Jack wiped away a tear with a short laugh.

 “Look at me, you’ve turned me into a sentimental idiot,” Genevieve rested her head back on his chest again, “How is Cora by the way?”

 “She kept saying “I told you so” after she read the letter. The whole cab ride back home,” Jack joked, remembering fondly how Cora had gushed to his family whilst also managing to berate him for smelling bad.

 “I miss her.”

 “She misses you too.”

 Genevieve snorted loudly at this, “Can I come and see her soon?”

 “Only after I’ve had my time with you.”


	23. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only took over four years for the first date to take place.

 He was so beautiful, even when he was snoring and mumbling about telling something. Careful not to wake the sleeping Jack beside her, Genevieve sat herself up and rotated her shoulder. It cracked and groaned at her, her face contorting to muffle the grunts in response. Her efforts were in vain however for the young man sat up behind her.

 “Are you ok?” Jack reached a shaking hand out to her shoulder.

 “Yeah, it’s just stiff in the mornings. I’m used to it,” Genevieve assured, tensing as his cool fingertips collided with her stiff skin.

 “Can I help?” He asked.

 “A kiss would make me feel better.”

 Since he was still groggy from sleep, Jack took a moment for this to settle in. A lovely shade of scarlet bloomed on his cheeks. Then he shuffled closer and kissed Genevieve’s shoulder, his lips warm through the fabric of her shirt. She accidentally let a giggle loose as she turned her head to face him. Tilting her head back, she rested her head against his.

 “I dreamed of waking up next to you for so long,” Jack uttered with a sigh. In his sleepy state, he kissed her chin instead of her lips. The action elicited more giggles from them both and, while not complying with his daydreams completely, filled him with the validation he longed for.

 

* * *

 

 Now fully aware of the extent of Genevieve’s injuries, Jack effectively planned their first date. He picked her up at eleven the next day in his car and drove her down to his local park, picnic basket full and jumping in the backseat with the uneven road’s trips. He ignored Genevieve’s comment about how she hoped his flying was better than his driving and pulled into a spot just outside the park gates.

 Genevieve forgot how lanky he was but he slowed his pace to meet hers, guiding her to his favourite spot. They took a seat on the picnic blanket laid down on the grassy plain of the park, the tree branches fanning out the golden leaves above their heads to reveal the sky. It was fairly warm for late September.

 Uncrossing her legs, Genevieve settled down on her back, “We should cloud-gaze; that’s a thing some people enjoy for a reason.”

 “I enjoy cloud gazing,” Jack said indignantly, flopping down beside her, “Though, to be fair, I’m in the air when I cloud gaze.”

 “Yeah, it’s better when you’re right next to them,” Genevieve flopped onto her back with a grunt and pointed, “Look it’s you.”

 Jack lay down next to her and followed her finger to see a rather distorted cloud that looked vaguely like a troll - if one squinted.

 “Ok, well, that one’s you,” He pointed to another one that just looked like a blob.

 “I’ll accept that compliment but flattery will get you nowhere, Mister,” Genevieve snubbed with a smile. Jack unpacked some of the food, passing over a jam sandwich. He fell on his back and the pair continued to playfully insult one another with cloud comparisons. Neither admitted that this was their idea of heaven for many a year.

 He rolled onto his side, head propped in his hand, “Are you gonna tell me the famous back story for your nickname?”

 “Ah, it’s nothing special,” Genevieve swallowed the rest of her sandwich, “Just some shitty teacher used to call me it. He caned me for the dumbest shit, like breathing too loud. But one time I filled his desk with frogspawn.”

 “Frogspawn?” Jack burst out.

 “Yeah, I felt bad after so I took the frog and put them in the draw as well, to be with their babies,” Genevieve smiled fondly at the memory. She successfully replaced the frog and its babies into the local pond and visited everyday to see how they grew in thanks for their assistance in her prank.

 “Genevieve Hastings, you’re a one,” Jack said giddily.

 He continued to supply the conversation with his dry wit and food, which Genevieve accepted gratefully and reciprocated with her twist. The clouds grew closer together as their bodies did, hushed laughter fluttering between their tete-a-tete.

 “I’m not a dog!” Genevieve snorted as he shook a box of raisins at her but opened her mouth anyway. Jack neatly tossed one into her mouth. Then he passed Genevieve the box. She deliberately nailed him on the nose and threw another into his mouth that was hanging open with indignation.

 “Oh, I got you something else.”

 Genevieve’s eyes widened as he leant over her. The smell of his soap was clinging to his shirt and skin, simplistic and somehow intoxicating. Every minor detail became major and she saw his collection of moles clustered on his neck.

 “Hey, I meant what I said.  I’m no floozy,” She said with mock seriousness in spite of her heart pounding against her ribcage. Jack merely smiled ingenuously and pulled a package out of the basket. Then he righted himself and held it out to Genevieve with an expectant smile. Suspicious, she sat up and accepted the present.

 “Shortbread!” She lit up instantly, ripping off the lid and sticking her face in it to smell the baked goods.

 “Hey! They’re for me too!”

 “No!” She held the box away from him. He reached further, pressing her into the picnic blanket and causing her to groan again.

 “Shit, sorry,” Jack abandoned the shortbread and helped Genevieve back into a sitting position. She rubbed her shoulder into calmer aches with her spare hand.

 “S’alright. I’d rather you treat me normal than like I’m glass.”

 With that, she crammed three wedges of shortbread into her mouth. Jack gawped before snatching one and eating it in a more delicate manner. They crunched on the glorious biscuit, smiles still etched onto their faces.

 “You’ve got some crumbs,” He touched the left corner of his lower lips.

 Genevieve brushed hers with the back of her hand and raised her eyebrows for confirmation. Instead Jack dropped his shortbread back in the box and dipped his head down, catching Genevieve off guard with a lingering kiss. She let out a blissful hum as he took her bottom lip between his and sucked softly, his tongue tracing off the crumbs remaining.

 Smirking at his handiwork, Jack pulled away, and bumped his nose against her, “There.”

 “I’m surprised you can keep your hands off me with that carry-on,” Genevieve spoke quietly to mask the fact that she was somewhat out of breath. Perhaps she would be a floozy, for him.

 “You disapprove of my methods?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

 “Hardly,” She lifted her chin up to kiss him again. Like she said before, they had all the time in the world to catch up. Many would be considered a shame that she was impatient now that she had a taste of his lips.

 Jack was not one of these people and fully welcomed her impatience to settle his own. His hand strayed over to her right hip as their tongues intertwined. Despite the public placing, Genevieve kissed down to his jaw to the taut muscle on the left side of his neck, tempted to leave a mark as he whined above her.

 And that’s when it started raining.

 Genevieve grinned as Jack reluctantly balled up the picnic blanket, cane in hand as she started running towards the fence. Jack winced as he saw her obvious limp but followed with the basket and blanket over his arm. The gate swung in the wake of her path.

 The urgency to get out of the pouring rain waned as Jack saw Genevieve spinning in the rain, arms outstretched, hair drenched, smile a beaming ray amidst the dark cover of the clouds. Both hands grasping her cane, she stood on tiptoe to reach as high as she could into the rain and closed her eyes. A long sigh was drawn from her in relaxation.

 Dropping the basket, Jack stepped before her. Drops of water dribbled down their faces as he nudged his lips back to hers. Cane forgotten, Genevieve draped her arms around his shoulders and drew him closer. His lips were still warm, sweetened by the persistent scent of the fruit consumed earlier. There was no desperation anymore nor any demands laid forth as he slowly but surely deepened the kiss with an ever-present smile.

 Regretfully it had to end but the drive back was brief to his place. However his joy trembled as Genevieve put more effort and weight onto her cane upon stepping out of the car.

 “You sure you’re alright?” Jack held the building’s door for her.

 “Please, I could’ve knocked down any of the men I’ve worked with.”

 Genevieve hung back once Jack was through the door and before Jack could question what was happening she swept him up into her arms bridal style and hopped forwards. His body jerked in shock. As fast as he was raised, he was lowered.  Jack grabbed her shoulders, eyes wild and wide as he checked that her leg hadn’t snapped from beneath her.

 “It’s ok, I did it on one leg,” Genevieve touched his face briefly with a smile of reassurance.

 “Don’t do that again, please,” Jack said, his voice rickety. His distress jarred Genevieve back to his reality, that he was terrified of losing her again.

 “I won’t, I swear,” She gently cradled his face, pressing a brief kiss onto his unsuspecting lips, “Now let’s go get dry. As much as I love the rain, I’d rather not contract influenza.”

 His flat was nicer than hers, despite being up the stairs. That negative was rendered null and void as Jack gave her a piggy back up the stairs – “eye for an eye, Ginny”. Upon placing her in his pleasantly decorated living room, he wrapped her up in a towel and disappeared to make some tea – “not peppermint, I promise” – while she waited for him.

 “Have you had to get a job yet?” Jack called from the kitchen.

 “Well, I’ve applied for a teaching position,” Genevieve said absentmindedly, flicking over the limited pictures Jack had decorating his desk. Curious, she pulled out the tin from her coat pocket and thumbed through the sheets of paper until she landed on the photo.

 “Oh yeah?”

 “Teaching assistant at an all-girls school, it’s not bad but some of them are little bitches.”

 She held up the photo to his family photo where a younger Jack Collins was eating a sandwich and sat on the beach with Toby, Ethel and Karen. The unrestrained smile was the same. Genevieve didn’t notice Jack’s return until he was hovering over her shoulder to see the photo in her hands.

 “Farrier was cracking something,” He said quietly, the memory still fond yet melancholy. 

 “What was he saying?”

 “An awful pun about the photographer’s toupee.”

 “Sounds more like something you’d say,” Genevieve turned to Jack and quoted, “‘Orange you glad I didn’t say blue?’”

 “It wooed you, didn’t it?”

 Genevieve let out a short exhale to signify her disdainful joy at the truth behind his statement, slipping the photo back into its place. Spying over her shoulder, Jack saw that beneath the photo was the faded fragile newspaper clipping, declaring the headline: “LOCAL BOY, GEORGE MILLS, JUST 17, HERO AT DUNKIRK”.

 “That’s the lad from the Moonstone.”

 “Yeah,” Genevieve sniffed before replacing the paper with its bundle.

 “Have you spoken to-”

 She interrupted, “Yeah. I spoke to Peter twice. He got drafted in 1941. Didn’t get his address and I don’t want to know.”

 Her fingers were bent and itching at the air by her sides. Recognising this trigger from her stay at his ma’s, Jack followed her and took her hands. He flattened the fingers against his palms, curling his own on top to secure them in place, away from her arms. Genevieve looked appreciative at this gesture.

 “Is that why you didn’t go to my house?” He said softly before kissing the back of her hands.

 Nodding, Genevieve leant into him, seeking comfort he was happy to provide, “I thought maybe if I stayed ignorant, you’d - to some extent - still be alive. I was terrified. Didn’t think you’d come looking for me.”

 “Of course I was going to look for you.”

 Placing the tin down on his desk, Genevieve turned and cuddled into his chest. It hit her again for the seventh time in the last three days how lucky she was to have him.


	24. Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another familiar face returns to Jack’s life after a five year absence.

 “Jack, the phone’s for you,” Genevieve yelled through the walls. An avalanche of footsteps came through the doorway and Jack in his neatly ironed trousers and button-up leapt around the corner to land beside his girlfriend. His girlfriend. He still wasn’t over that title.

 “Thanks, my love,” He pecked her cheek before taking the receiver, “Hello? Yes, this is Collins speaking.”

 Genevieve left him alone to hobble down the stairs – fewer thankfully than his last place - and get back to cleaning the car. Jack had somehow managed to get mud all over it whilst driving home after a visit. It was only fair that she help to clean it after helping him move into his new flat.

 She was done with the windshield, the left hand side of the car and was just starting on the bonnet before Jack made an appearance. Genevieve had a slackers joke prepared as she stood up to greet him but she was cut off. Skin ashen, Jack pressed his palms into the roof and stared without seeing at the front seat.

 “You alright?” Genevieve dropped the sponge into the bucket.

 As she drew closer, she could hear that he was borderline hyperventilating. Rubbing his back, she waited patiently for him to calm down. Her touch helped to ground Jack with the coolness of the car’s roof and the splashes of water droplets.  

 “It’s Farrier. He’s alive. He wants to meet with me.”

 The man she’d only seen in a photo in Jack’s sitting room that meant so much to Jack, he was here. He was here in London. Genevieve found herself short of breath with him.

 Finally she spoke “When does he want to see you?”

 “Now.”

 “And you said yes?”

 “Mm-hmm.”

 Genevieve nodded, acknowledging that cleaning the car was nowhere near the top of their priority list anymore, “Do you want to get ready?”

 “No, I want to go now.”

 “Ok.”

 Jack didn’t question Genevieve dumping the bucket in the foyer and taking the car keys. He complied by sitting in the front seat and mumbled directions to the Red Lion. The claustrophobia of the car didn’t help. Usually the space’s effect on him was minimal but now it’d grown exponentially. It was a decade at least before they pulled up outside the chosen location of the rendezvous.

 “Do you want me to come in with you?” Genevieve asked, hand on the key in case he should say yes.

 Without a word, Jack shook his had. His mind was spinning with what he was gonna do. What could he say?  _Hey Farrier, long time no see, how was the camp?_ Would he remember him? Lord knows what happened to him in Germany. In fact, he didn’t want to know and made a not to steer clear of that topic. Jack’s knee bounced like a hyperactive toddler, his hands clasping his face and holding his breath.

 Genevieve placed a hand on Jack’s knee, squeezing it. The bouncing subsides and Jack released his face to take her hand.

“What do I say?” He asked softly.

 “I hear ‘hello’ is a great conversation starter,” Genevieve joked, “And Englishmen do love small talk about the weather.”

 “Yeah, thanks,” Jack said sarcastically but, in reality, he was grateful for the diffusion of the tension, even if it was only a little.

 “Take your time,” Genevieve said with integrity this time, “I’ll be out here if you need me. Just go in when you’re ready. If Farrier’s anything like you described him on his breaks, he’ll appreciate a little humour.”

 “Yeah, he did… does, he does,” Jack took a deep breath, kissed Genevieve’s hand and opened the car door, “You’ll be back in half an hour?”

 “Right here, half an hour on the dot,” Genevieve nodded.

 Smiling appreciatively, Jack’s voice cracked as he thanked her. Coughing to steady his voice, he left his car and shut the door. It didn’t drive away until he was at the door, ensuring that he was at least considering to go ahead with this meeting. He didn’t believe in God but Jack still muttered a brief prayer before entering.

 Upon entering, Jack scanned the patrons. Not many people came to the pub at two in the afternoon so it was easy enough to narrow it down. There was a man sat with his back to the door beside the window overlooking the beer garden.

 Jack stared at his comrade with shameful curiosity for the first time in five years. His heart punched his breastbone repeatedly and not in the usual way it did. It wasn’t like his first glimpse of Genevieve; almost everything had changed. His tanned skin bore a sallow hue, sinking into his skull. His hair was thinning and, although it was combed neatly, it was obvious that it had clumps missing. Scars littered his features. His skinny frame was buried underneath his coat.

 “Collins!” His face lit up and he stood to hug him. He was still surprisingly strong, despite his the tremor in his arms. Farrier grunted and wheezed, the laugh escaping his chest as they left the embrace and looked upon one another. Jack joined in with relief, going a little pink as Farrier stared him down with the rare smile that was famous among the RAF base they were both on.

 “Long time, no see, eh?” Farrier’s hand lightly slapped his colleague’s arm.

 “You could say that,” Jack pressed his lips into a smile.

 “Can I buy you a drink?”

 “I think so, yes.”

 Two whiskeys were delivered to their table as Jack took a seat opposite Farrier. The younger man was trying not to cry and nursed his drink carefully so as not to kickstart his motor mouth.

 “I guess it’s ridiculous to ask how you are,” He let out a hollow laugh.

 “You’d be right.” Farrier leant his forearms against the table, “But I’m gonna ask how you are. Good to see you made it out the Spitfire.”

 “Ah, you remember.”

 “Course I do. I’m not an amnesiac.”

 “Right, of course,” Jack shuffled in the chair, “Your mother’s been to see you then.”

 “Oh, she did. Made it out the air raids, she was telling me about. New flowers every day I was in hospital. Stench’s over-powering,” Farrier smiled fondly. It was odd, seeing him smile so much. But it was nonetheless beautiful. In spite of this more expressive persona, the more he stared, the more Jack realised Farrier hadn’t transformed all that much, same old handsome tough sonofabitch.

 Jack snapped back into formality, “My mother’s the same. Doesn’t like that I don’t stay with her no more.”

 “You still in that tiny fuck-off flat then?” Farrier raised a brow, highlighting his eyes.

 “No, actually, I’ve moved out to a bigger one.”

 “Atta boy, Collins!” Farrier slapped his arm again over the table, “Finally got a backbone.”

 Jack laughed, “Oh it wasn’t my idea but I’m sure as hell glad I went along with it.”

 “What, your mum force you out?”

 “No, I’ve moved closer to my girlfriend.” Jack braved a look up. There, Farrier’s smile was replaced by a look of admiration – another famed rarity on their old base.

 “So? Tell me about her!” He egged on, leaning forward with interest. Whilst Jack shuffled his chair closer, his heart was shot with a brief yet painful pang that he ignored and repressed.

 “Uh, her name’s Genevieve. She was actually on the sailboat that picked me out the Spitfire when I crashed.”

 “You got a kid for a girlfriend?”

 “What?”

 “Well if she’s too young to be a nurse, she’s too young for you, you creep,” Farrier joked, his wheezing laugh interjecting the words. It took Jack a moment to figure out what Farrier was referring to then he quickly leapt to his own defence.

 “No! No, I ain’t a cradle-snatcher or nothing. She was on the boat ‘cus she was picked up too.”

 “Real meet-cute there. When do I get to meet her?” Farrier clasped his hands in front of him, already taking up the role of moderator.

 “She’ll be back in fifteen minutes if you wanted to…”

 “Great. Can’t wait,” Farrier took a long sip from his tumbler. The ice clinked against the glass as it was placed back on the table. Jack copied him, trying not to splutter on the whiskey.

 “You got anyone?” He asked quietly.

 “Nah,” Farrier said finitely. That closed that topic of conversation with a short stop of silence before Farrier brought up Jack’s ma. But soon enough there was a car parking outside the pub again.

 “That’s her.” Jack strained his neck to see it. Then he turned to Farrier for confirmation again.

 “Yeah, sure, bring her in,” Farrier waved ascent, “Since I’m the reason you got together, I’ll be the judge of whether she’s good for you or not.”

 “Farrier, it wasn’t your fault I got-”

 “Hey,” Farrier leant forward with a pointed finger and serious expression, “Go get your girl. That’s an order, Fortis 2.”

 Jack half-smiled, “Right you are, Fortis 1.”

 He quickly exited the pub and knocked on the car window. Genevieve was reading a large book titled “Picture of Dorian Gray”; upon seeing Jack, she marked the page and closed it.

 “How is Farrier?” She opened the door and stepped out to hug him. He didn’t initially know that he needed this but Jack clung to her, his face in her neck, and felt any remaining tension slip away.

 He whispered, “He’s almost the same as before.”

 “That’s a relief.”

 “-But,” Jack continued, releasing her from his grip, “He’s not well. Feels guilty about a ton of stuff.”

 “That’s less of a relief,” Genevieve said bluntly, unable to think of something else to say in comfort.

 “He wants to meet you.”

 Genevieve pinched his shoulders, fingering his jacket’s material before responding, “I mean, you showed me photo off to your other pilot pals. Don’t want to make Farrier feel left out.” Jack went red as Genevieve smirked at him, looping her arm through his.

 They walked back over to the door, “Go on, ladies first.”

 “He’s your friend?”

 “He’s expecting my girlfriend.”

 “I can’t believe arguing about who goes first into a room, is that a thing couples do?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “Fine, I’ll go in first,” Genevieve pushed through the door. If she was surprised by Farrier’s condition, she didn’t show it. Instead she put on a smile akin to his – genuine and winsome.

 “Hey, I’m Genevieve but I’m sure Jack’s already introduced me.”

 “He’s done the same for me, I bet,” Farrier stood and shook her outstretched hand. Then he grunted at Jack who was stood an awkward few feet away, “What are you doing over there, you tosspot?”

 “Uh, observing,” Jack stuck his hands in his pockets.

 Rolling her eyes at her partner, Genevieve turned back to Farrier, “So, tell me, was he always an inarticulate bumble or is that saved specially for me?”

 “Oh Christ,” Jack covered his face and dropped into the chair beside her.

 “He was always terrible with women, I can remember that. Stammering over his words and asking random questions, completely inept,” Farrier grinned at Jack as he took a seat with his girlfriend.

 Sensing his discomfort, Genevieve squeezed his hand in his lap before finishing her quips, “Oh, I thought he was shivering with the cold or shock. I pinned his question about my favourite colour on that too.”

 “Good God, Collins, how’d you get her to stick around?”

 “Well, when you almost drown then pull a bunch of soldiers out of oil, you are kind of bonded whether you like it or not,” Genevieve said with sarcastic wisdom. Farrier stiffened slightly but it passed as he began his cross-examination to see if she was a worthy partner for Jack.

 “So, were you a nurse then?”

 “No, I was a sniper.”

 “Collins, marry this woman right now.”

 Going silent, Genevieve’s ear went red. Jack began to choke on his own top button, tugging to undo it. Farrier’s wheezing laughter filled the room as he spluttered over their awkwardness. Exchanging a brief moment of eye contact, Jack and Genevieve stared into their laps.

 Finally, she managed to stammer out a response, “I-I don’t think that’s the best criteria to measure a person’s partner.”

 “Nah,” Farrier chuckled, “I can tell you’re good.”

 Jack quickly downed his drink and signalled for the bartender to bring another as he gulped it down.

 “Woah, slow down. If I remember correctly, you’re a real lightweight,” Farrier said whilst tapping his tumbler. At this comment, Genevieve remembered a certain comment Jack had said during her time at his ma’s house.

 “Yeah, he really is,” She mumbled to herself, wishing that she could also be drinking.

 

* * *

 

 After drinking another two rounds of whiskey to stomach his nerves, Jack bade Farrier farewell. He pulled him back into a hug and Jack took a moment to process that this needed to be reciprocated. His arms carefully constricted around Farrier who had his nose in his shoulder. Somehow the two inches height difference between them was also consistent through the years.

 He disregarded Genevieve’s hand and pulled her into an equally tight hug. She responded faster than Jack had and with a beaming smile.

 “I’ll be seeing you both,” He grinned before turning away and walking the opposite direction.

 Jack was quiet on the way home. He stared out the window as Genevieve drove home. She didn’t try to make him speak, knowing that today had been emotionally taxing for him. The car was clean anyway; she’d done it whilst waiting for the half an hour interlude to be up.

 Still quiet, Jack realised that Genevieve couldn’t get home because he’d had too much to drink which is why she followed him to his flat. But this opened up an opportunity for him as he closed the door behind them and remembered his evening routine.

 “You know what I said the other day about…?” He nodded over to the bathroom.

 Genevieve followed his gesture and caught on, “You want me to help you?”

 “Please.”

 Touching his shoulder for comfort, Genevieve headed into the bathroom. She rolled up her sleeves and switched up the taps. Hand swirling around the mix the cold and hot water together in the perfect temperature, it shook the droplets off just as Jack stripped down to his underwear behind the tub.

 Genevieve helped Jack into the bath, unfazed by the amount of skin revealed to her. She helped him get down to his knees then sit down properly in the low level of water. As he shuddered in the warmth, he heard Genevieve whispering that he was doing so well. It was nice to hear her say this to him in real life and not in his head. Much more believable as he felt her lather up his left arm with his green flannel. As she reached his shoulder, he took it and cleaned his other arm.

 Kneeling beside him, Genevieve took the cup from his sink and poured water over the suds. They slid down his chest to pop on the water’s surface. She repeated this several times until he was content that he was clean. Washing his own hair, he stood and accepted the towel Genevieve gave him.

 She left him to get changed out of his underwear and into his robe. As he exited, she was back at his desk looking at the photos. Jack tensed, as he remembered the something that resided in that desk, before walking over to her side. He was welcomed with her open arms.

 “That really helped,” He accepted her hug, “Thank you.”

 “You’re welcome, my love.”

 My love. That was what he was and that’s what Genevieve was to him. He knew it. He felt it. So why in that moment was he questioning it?


	25. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubts settle in the back of the mind, lingering in even the most happy of situations.

 Jack was in his own little world and it wasn’t the happiest one. The only positive was that what he had doubted he knew now was true. When he was questioning his feelings for Genevieve, he had been overwhelmed with the joy and anxiety of Farrier’s return. Clearheaded a few weeks later he could see there was no questioning how he felt for her.

 The problem was that his partner was completely open with him. No, it wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with Genevieve bluntly telling him whatever was on her mind. The problem was that he had kept something from her. The longer he waited to tell her, the worse it weighted on his mind. He could very easily destroy the evidence, burn it all. But then it would simply sit in his stomach and stew him in his secret for the rest of his life.

 He didn’t want to ruin what he had. So he continued to enjoy the ignorance Ginny swam in, constantly changing his plans to tell her and basking in the times where he forgot the secret’s existence.  

 “Jack!”

 Said person looked up from the letter, stuffing it under his inkwells with the rest and shutting it in his desk draw.

 “Yes, Ginny?” He called back. His partner appeared around the corner of the doorframe, waving something in her hands and squealing like it was Christmas day today and not in a month.

 “Jack, look!” She thrust out her hand to him, bouncing up and down. Smiling warmly, Jack took the paper and unfolded it. A splurge of bright colours and bold font on shiny paper – a pamphlet – informed him that some of Vincent Van Gogh’s greatest works were at the British National Gallery over Saturday and Sunday. Many of Genevieve’s descriptions of her favourite pieces led him to deduce that Starry Night and Sunflowers was one of the works in London that weekend.

 “It was pinned to the notice board at work – Mariane bought it in - and there was another at the post office. I have to go!” She insisted, “The greatest paintings in the whole world are in the same place and I have to see them! I just need a couple of pennies to get the bus-”

 “You’re not getting the bus,” Jack put the pamphlet on the desk, “I’ll take work off and drive you. We’ll both go.”

 “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Genevieve pounced on her partner with bursts of mirth. Laughing with her, Jack spun her around in his arms. She was so sweet, so deserving of someone better than him. He only hoped he could forget once again during this trip.

 

* * *

 

 “Come on, come on!” Her stomach in knots, Genevieve dragged Jack through the halls. She didn’t stop to look at any of the art hanging up on the walls or the statues in the centre of the room. Her cane became an accessory, barely touching the floor as she moved through each exhibit. She was like this outside too, not even stopping to enjoy the rain.

 “Slow down, my love,” Jack laughed at her as Genevieve yanked his arm, “It’s not going anywhere. Don’t you want to build up to it, look at some other paintings?”

 “No!”

 Shaking his head fondly, Jack was left with only fleeting glances at the marble carvings. He made a mental note to return after they’d reached their destination. There was so much around them that he wanted to revisit, to be a part of the many people stood stroking their chins as they tried to understand the artist’s intentions behind their art.

 Jack was absorbed in another painting from the previous hall when he collided with Genevieve. He got out an apology quick but she didn’t appear to have heard it, frozen to the floor and staring at the back wall. He followed her stare.

 There at the end of the hall was Starry Night. The cerulean sky and the auburn lights filled the canvas, soft strokes swirled together to form the perfect balance of imagination and natural beauty. It was really there. In a trance, Genevieve walked over to the painting, right up to the barrier past the other of the museum’s patrons. She was so close she could see the layers of paint, the colours piling on one another, holding the ground the paintbrush had placed them on.

 Standing beside her, Jack took in the painting. He didn’t get art, he’d said it many times before. But he didn’t bring that up as he looked upon Genevieve. Her lips parted with a sigh and drew the corners up in a seraphic smile. A tear dribbled down her cheek but she didn’t wipe it away. Damp curls framed her face, her dark eyes shining brighter than the stars in the painting. Jack almost felt jealous of the painting being on the receiving end of such a beautiful expression.

 “Thank you for bringing me,” Genevieve whispered, her voice cracking, unable to tear her eyes from the art hanging before her. Careful not to disrupt her, Jack pulled her into his chest as they both stared at the painting.

 “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” He squeezed her shoulders.

 “I thought you weren’t a fan of Van Gogh.”

 “I’m not. I wasn’t talking about him.” Jack rested his chin on her head, “I wouldn’t have missed the look on your face… Pure joy.”

 Genevieve finally looked up at him, still smiling radiantly up at him. Beaming back at her, he brushed her cheek tenderly before rubbing his nose against hers.

 “It’s the most radiant thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing in this gallery can compare.”

 Genevieve went red, giggling to herself, and Jack instantly committed this image to memory.

 Then she tugged him by the hand towards another painting, “I don’t know. You mentioned Sunflowers would be your favourite.”

 Surprised that she remembered something from a letter three years prior, Jack looked over to the corner where Sunflowers was hanging, free of tourists for his viewing. Genevieve was right. The stipple of the seeds with the chipped sections of the vase, it was unbelievably prepossessing. It just appealed to him, made him want to plant some sunflowers in his non-existent garden.

 “Any way I can buy them for the lounge?” He spoke in awe.

 “Sunflowers cost one point six million pounds and Starry Night is two and a half million.”

 “Can I satisfy you with a poster instead?”

 “One of each?” Genevieve pressed her offer in her favour but there was no need for Jack was willing.

 “Sure.”

 “You spoil me,” She grinned leaning back into his side.

 “Anything for my girl,” Jack curled his arm around her waist, his lips pressed into her hair again.

 The ever shifting amount of tourists forced the pair to leave this room in the gallery so that other could enjoy it. Since they were there, Genevieve and Jack walked about the rest of the building to observe the

 They were given slight priorities in the eyes of the public since Genevieve could just wince and lean on her cane a little more than usual and the crowds parted like the Red Sea. Of course, they went back to the Van Gogh exhibit before going to the gift shop to pick up their new wall art.

 “I love you,” Genevieve kissed Jack’s cheek as she looped her arm through his, her cane almost forgotten once again, “And not just because you buy me posters.”

 “I love you too.”

 It was still raining as they left. Genevieve was still riding the high of ticking off the item at the top of her bucket list and was the only person in the entirety of London to laugh at the pouring droplets smacking her in the face. Seeing her so happy made Jack think of someone – or rather a set of people – and as he walked back with her to the car, enjoying the weather with her, he decided on an additional checkpoint before home.

 Genevieve picked up on this after a quick glance up from her new poster, “I thought your flat was in the other direction.”

 “It is,” Jack spun the wheel around a corner and Genevieve felt herself go back in time five years. She turned to Jack as he switched off the engine with the car parked outside a very familiar house – not because it was part of a terrace. Stepping out of the car, she felt the urge to hide behind Jack but forced herself to stand beside him instead on the steps.

 The door opened and Cora appeared, looking a little wearier than before, but her body came alive as she saw who was before her.

 “Oh my God!” She shrieked, grabbing Genevieve by the shoulders and clutching her into her chest. Genevieve was mildly alarmed at this display, remaining rigid in the embrace.

 “Hello to you too, Ma,” Jack raised his eyebrows, not fighting off the smile on his lips.

 “Oh shush, you beast, keeping Genevieve away from me,” Cora swatted him over Genevieve’s shoulder before cradling the young woman’s face in her hands, “Oh, I read the letter you sent my boy, I’m so glad that you’re ok!”

 Jack ran a hand through his sopping hair, “Mind letting us in so we don’t get washed down the drain?”

 “Yes!” Cora stepped out of the way, bouncing on the balls of her feet with her hands clasped to her chest. She could barely contain herself, her emotions twice the size of her petite body, as Jack and Genevieve removed their shoes and wiped their faces on their sleeves.

 “Oh right. Karen! Can you get some towels please?” Cora yelled.

 “Ok!” Another younger voice with a faint yet telltale Scottish lilt replied from the top of the stairs. Soon there was a clatter of footsteps down the stairs and a young woman appeared, wearing the same outfit Genevieve borrowed during her stay.

 “Jack!” She pounced on her brother who neatly caught her in his arms.

 “Hey, Karen, how are you?” He squeezed her tightly before placing her down.

 “Good!” She then realised there was a guest in the hallway, “Hey, I’m Karen.” She stuck out her right hand then her face cracked with shock, “I’m so sorry!”

 Glancing down, Genevieve saw that her own right hand was occupied with her cane and started laughing, “It’s ok. I have two hands.”

 A little relieved, Karen shook her hand then passed the towel over. Jack grinned at the proceedings, accepting his towel and tussling his hair dry. It was curled by the time he was done, something already seen by Genevieve’s eyes but still adorable. As his sister and ma left the hallway, indicating for them to follow into the kitchen, Jack leant down and whispered into Genevieve’s ear:

 “I prefer you in that outfit.”

 “Stop it,” She slapped him lightly on his chest with her towel, fidgeting with her cane before braving to ask, “Do you know if everyone is here?”

 “Toby and Ethel are still at work. My da doesn’t come home until six,” Jack recited, “We can leave before then if it’s too much.”

 He was too sweet, always keeping her in his best interests. Her stomach erupted in butterflies as she smiled up at him. Genevieve nudged her lips against his in what was meant to be the briefest of kisses but Jack refused this short length by cradling the back of her head and holding her against him.

 “Stop it,” She repeated with an edge to her voice but her request was lost against his mouth with the playfulness infiltrating her voice. Grinning against her lips, Jack pecked them one more time before they followed into the kitchen, ready for their grilling from Cora - as a proper couple this time.


	26. Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outing that both Genevieve and Jack arrives but they try anyway for the sake of one another and their mutual friend Farrier.

 Curled up on the couch, Genevieve came to the penultimate chapter of Dorian Gray. The warm blanket was wrapped around her legs, tucked under with careful precision. A mug of tea – finally, she’d trained Jack to make it properly – was on the walnut coffee table, just a few feet in front of the crackling fire.

 She heard the front door close and boots clatter against the floor. There was only one other person with a key to her flat so she knew who it was in an instant. Shedding his coat and scarf, Jack sauntered into the sitting room and placed a kiss on his girlfriend’s head.

 “Hello, my love,” She smiled up at him, “How was your day?”

 “Pretty good,” He plonked himself on the other side of the couch, “Not much happened though. You?”

 “I finished grading those papers so I’m free to the end of term.”

 “Sounds good. More time for me then,” Jack grinned, taking a sip from her mug and dodging a small kick of indignation. Merely grimacing at him when he continued to steal her drink, Genevieve went back to her book after tucking her feet back under her.

 “So, some of the guys are getting together-”

 “Guys?”

 “Guys, pilots I flew with,” Jack clarified before continuing, “Anyway, they’re going out to the Red Lion tomorrow celebrate the first Christmas after the war and also an official welcome back for Farrier. I was wondering if you wanted to come along. There’s gonna be dancing.”

 Genevieve frowned, “Is that supposed to convince me or deter me?”

 “Convince.”

 “You’re barking up the wrong tree, my love,” She turned a page. Sighing, Jack took a seat on the couch adjacent to her.

 “Please, most of them don’t think you exist. They think I cut your photo out of a magazine or somethin’ ‘cause you’re too pretty to be my girl.”

 “I don’t know, Jack…” Genevieve tilted her head to the side, focusing on the Sunflowers poster behind his head instead.

 Sensing the crack in her resolve, Jack pressed a little further, “It’ll just be for an hour or so. Farrier’ll want you there. It’s the only time I want you to come to a bar.”

 “I’ll think about it.” The book dropped as Jack pulled it back and knelt in front of Genevieve, his face on her knees. He pouted, his bottom lip quivering in a pantomime fashion, his eyes – damn, his eyes – were wide and begging.

 “Please, my love, my sweet, my one, my darling, my baby, my-”

 “Jack, you don’t want me hanging around all evening like a wet blanket.”

 Sliding closer, Jack leant over Genevieve’s body with the same expression, blinking pleadingly at her as he pushed her knees aside and gripped the back of the sofa to maintain his position of ultimate begging. Sighing loudly, Genevieve tilted her head back to avoid his stare. Big mistake. Jack seized the opportunity to press a kiss against her neck, then another a little lower, and another.

 “Jack,” Genevieve groaned in sweet resignation. Sensing this, Jack began to suck on a new spot and rubbed it with his tongue. “Alright, you’ve seduced me into it!” Genevieve said dramatically as she pulled him up by his hair, “You better not have left a mark, you cruel bastard.”

 “Thanks, darling,” Jack quickly kissed her lips before twisting around and settling between her legs, his head under her chin, “How much left have you got to go?”

 “Two chapters,” Genevieve looped her arms under Jack’s before picking up her book and resuming her read through. She didn’t bother to stop Jack when he stole her tea again. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to have something drinkable for once.

 

* * *

 

 “You nearly ready?” Jack adjusted his tie in her sitting room mirror. He made sure that it covered the top button that wasn’t done up. The stiff collar was bad enough without added restricted breathing.

 “I’ll be out in a sec,” Genevieve yelled back. She settled on a pair of ballet-esque shoes instead of heels. Fuck, if she was gonna even attempt to dance, she was not going to walk around in those stilts. Envy combined with respect was all she felt towards those who could walk in those torture devices.

 With a neckline that wasn’t too low-cut, three-quarter length sleeves and an a-line skirt (pockets included), the dress wasn’t the worst option. It was however the only option. It was an old one of her sister’s that was a “happy moving in” gift. In all honesty, she didn’t wear it anymore because she preferred green and had an exact copy in her preferred shade of jade. Genevieve pushed her sister from her mind. While she had phoned her family frequently she had yet to tell them about Jack. That was a topic of conversation for another day.

 Sticking another pin in her loosely braided bun, she sprayed it in one final attempt to make her hair stay in place. Her prayers were answered as her hair held its position. The forecast had said the night would be clear and crisp so she left her coat on its hook, checking her appearance once more before shutting the bedroom door.

 “Not bringing the hat then?” She teased, relishing in his eye roll of regret at showing her that damn hat, “Are we taking the car or not?”

 “Uh, not, I walked here and we won’t need it unless you’re not drinking or if your leg’s hurting,” Jack brushed off his jacket, turning to Genevieve whilst she grabbed her cane.

 “Alright, it’s not that far anyway so as long as we don’t drink too much, we’ll be fine. My leg’s good,” Genevieve picked a piece of fluff of his shoulder before she realised Jack was staring blankly at her with his mouth slightly agape, “You alright?”

 Closing his mouth and swallowing, Jack nodded. He was reminded of the daydreams that had gotten him through the war. He landed the one written in the draft letter he’d recovered before Genevieve burst in with the news of Van Gogh’s exhibition. The draft of the last letter he’d written to her, where he’d scribbled a deleted paragraph about having children together. A golden haired girl with her bright smile and love for the rain and a chubby little boy trotting after his sister as they played airplanes in a garden filled with sunflowers and cosmos. Names unknown, faces undistinguishable but a possible future Jack liked to think about.

 “I think red’s my new favourite colour.”

 Feeling the blood rush to her cheeks, Genevieve dropped her head and bit her lip in embarrassment, “You’re an idiot.” She lightly hit him in the stomach.

 “I love it when you get all flushed,” Jack teased, leaning closer, “You look enchanting, my darling.”

 “You don’t look half bad yourself,” Genevieve responded as she managed to meet his gaze with a witty smile.

 “Oh, so generous too with the flattery,” Jack checked the mantle clock then he backed towards the door, “We better get going so you can shower the lads with half-truths.”

 “Please, you’re the only one I’d compliment with such authenticity,” Genevieve followed him out the flat. She took his arm with her spare once she locked the door.

 “You know how to make a man feel special,” Jack’s sarcasm overflowed in the statement as they walked out of her building. Their humorous conversation continued up until they made it around the corner of the pub when Genevieve went silent.

 “You alright?” Jack slipped his hand into hers and squeezed.

 Genevieve nodded, “Yeah, just a bit… nervous.”

 “I’ll be here the whole time,” Jack pulled her closer, “Just tell me if you need air and we can leave whenever you want.”

 “Thank you,” Genevieve rested her head against his shoulder, silently psyching herself up before standing up straight again, “Let’s go.”

 It was crowded. It was bustling. It was definitely louder than the last time Genevieve had been in a pub – over five years prior when she had to drag a plastered Jack out. Her body tensing, she adjusted her grip on her cane as an anchor. Jack kept his hand in hers as they scanned for a familiar face.

 They both landed on the only one they both knew. Farrier lit up like the lights in Trafalgar Square upon seeing them. He stood up without excuse from the table he was a part of and strode over to them. His cheeks and his nose were ruddy. His clothes matched his comrades. After he clapped Jack on the back, shaking his hand ferociously as he grinned, he took Genevieve into a tight hug. Jack tensed but Genevieve seemed fine with this sudden display of affection.

 “So glad you could make it,” He exaggerated each word as if to convince them that he wasn’t tipsy in the slightest, “Come on, everyone is waiting.”

 “He’s rather hands on when he’s had a few, should’ve mentioned that. Sorry, love,” Jack excused himself quietly as they followed Farrier back the table. Genevieve nodded then flinched as someone was shoved into her. Eager to make amends, Jack stepped up behind her and took the role of shoving others out of the way and scowling at those who dared question his actions.

 When they made it to the table, Eastbury stood to shake their hands over the table, lingering on Genevieve’s as he introduced himself and the woman next to him, “I’m Eastbury. This is my wife Frances.”

 “Genevieve,” said person greeted, shaking hands with the tipsy man and the stunning woman opposite. Jack tried not to seem surprised at the fact that Eastbury had a wife as he in turn said hello.

 “Lester. So you actually exist?” Lester greeted as he shook Genevieve’s hand.

 “Yes,” She nodded, trying to uphold eye contact, “So do you.”

 Genevieve took a seat beside Farrier and she began talking quietly to him. He responded a little louder than a whisper but she smiled with her response. Jack didn’t object, sitting beside her with Lester on his other side. It was a dream come true to see them interacting so animatedly together.

 Another round was ordered and it seemed that Eastbury was way further ahead in the stages of drunken behaviour. Farrier and Frances were close behind, followed by Lester and leaving Genevieve and Jack in last place. Genevieve wasn’t in any rush to catch up, content to sip her pint and chat with Farrier. Jack on the other hand took two drinks to reach third place by quarter to ten.

 “Are you really a sniper?” Eastbury leant across the table, disrupting Genevieve’s conversation with Farrier. His voice was much less together than he thought it was.

 “Yes, I was,” She answered politely.

 “Woah,” Eastbury boggled then he pointed to her cane resting against the table, “Is the cane secretly a sniper rifle?”

 “No, it’s just my cane,” Genevieve knocked the curved edge against the table top. Farrier burst into wheezes that erupted from deep in his chest. He slapped the table boisterously, in the final stages of drunk now. Jack watched him distractedly until he calmed down. That lasted all of five seconds when Genevieve took her cane and mimed shooting a patron at the opposite end of the bar and they both collapsed in paroxysms of hissed laughter.

 “Did Jack ever tell you how we read your letters?” Eastbury followed up out of the blue.

 Genevieve sat up straighter, laughter coming to a close more with intrigue than with feeling violated, “No.”

 Before Jack could stop this revelation coming to light, Eastbury slurred, “We had to force him to write his confession because he’s so dumbly in love with you.”

 “We were his wingmen!” Lester chimed in.

 “Oh, Jack,” Genevieve took Jack’s hand and squeezed it, her teasing grin fuelled by the ease of the alcohol. Jack went a little red but thankfully he was saved by the bell – or the clock chiming on the pub wall.

 “Right, that’s ten, no war talk after ten,” Eastbury announced.

 “Oh thank God,” Frances knocked back the rest of her drink.

 She didn’t comment but Genevieve sighed with relief, taking a deeper draft from her glass. The lack of war talk allowed for her to converse with Frances, their chatter not lost over the table in the mix of the guys’ prattle. But just as she was getting into the conversation, the pub started to grow to booming levels of volume.

 “You alright, love?” Jack checked in, sobering up for his girlfriend’s sake.

 “I’m alright. You?”

 “Yeah,” Jack spoke slowly because he really wasn’t “alright” if she wasn’t, “Do you want to come outside for a bit? I’m getting a bit stuffy in here anyway.”

 With a murmured excuse to Farrier, Genevieve allowed herself to be led her outside, away from the hubbub. Jack was right; there was no one outside due to the clouds gathering overhead. This didn’t dissuade him though; he simply waited for Genevieve to take her time pacing the empty beer garden with her feet rotating in a steadying technique.

 “Do you want to dance?” He asked softly, feeling nervous for some reason, “Or am I still barking up the wrong tree?”

 To his delight, Genevieve agreed to dance with him. After placing her cane on a bench he pulled Genevieve close, one hand on her waist and the other taking her left, and swayed her from side to side. The muffled swing music guided their steps.

 Genevieve’s smile returned to her face. She maintained eye contact with her boyfriend and swayed with him. The cold didn’t bother her much; Jack’s body heat radiated through his uniform and into her.  Their faces were close, their noses almost touching.

 Something drifted between them. A dainty snowflake floated in front of Genevieve’s eyes and landed on Jack’s right cheek. Tilting her head up at the marbled grey sky, the pair saw more snowflakes followed, dancing on the air with them. Genevieve started laughing as more settled on her face, tilting her head back and sticking her tongue out to catch them. The white flecks landed in her hair, turning her dress into a polka-dot pattern.

 “Snow always meant shit for me,” Jack murmured, “Used to catch on the windshield, block our view, couldn’t see anything in the storms.”

 “Same here,” Genevieve looked back at him, “Cold as fuck, the uniform didn’t help… But it’s so beautiful.”

 “It is,” Jack agreed. He spun her around, her skirts lifting with her, before bringing her back close to him. A little more confident with the dance, Genevieve relaxed and rested her head against Jack’s chest. His heartbeat was slow and strong, steadily thumping against her ear. She slipped her hand out of his and linked it with the other behind his neck, feeling Jack place his on her waist.

 “I love you,” She closed her eyes, contentedly so.

 “I love you too,” Jack pressed a kiss on the crown of her head. The swaying ceased and the pair stood in the garden in each other’s embrace, the rabble of the pub a distant event as the snow fell around them.

 They weren’t sure how long they were stood there. For when they pulled away the snow was heavier and louder. It was sleet. So much for the weather forecast.

 “Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Genevieve said cheerily, “Wanna go back in?”

 “Would rather go home,” Jack shrugged.

 “Should we tell them?” She gestured to the pub but Jack shrugged again.

 “Home it is.”

 Taking his hand, Genevieve ran with him in tow. She was faster than him somehow, her limp had diminished to an occasional stumble and she was thanking her stars that she wasn’t wearing heels. The rain and the running fuelled her adrenaline and Genevieve found herself to be laughing again. Jack was doing the same. Cackling like mad people, they wheezed as they jumped over and around puddles with the raindrops coming hard and fast. It thwacked down and showed no signs of stopping.

 “You wanted to dance!” Genevieve crowed, taking both of Jack’s hands and spinning him around with glee. Indulging her lunacy, Jack spun her faster until she let go of one hand and twirled into his arms, her back against his chest as she giggled hysterically. She only calmed down as she caught Jack’s gaze over her shoulder, droplets running down his hair and face. Breathing deeply, he leant his forehead against hers. The memory of a moonlit serenade filled their heads.

 “Kiss me,” He breathed. Genevieve tilted her head to meet his lips. They lazily moved in sync, Genevieve swiping her tongue over Jack’s bottom lip then gently taking it in her mouth to suck on it. Groaning, Jack’s hand subconsciously moved to her neck. She shivered at his touch, her skin tingling in his wake.

 Rain ran down their faces, forcing them apart. Smiling shyly at her sudden extroverted behaviour, Genevieve kissed Jack’s cheek before tugging him back down the road that led to her flat. Completely smitten, Jack let her do so. In the shelter of the building’s foyer, they climbed the stairs quickly. Jack unlocked the door and the pair stumbled in, dripping puddles onto the hallway’s floor.

 “Bet you wish we bought the car,” Genevieve was still snickering as Jack wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She then caught sight of her reflection in the sitting room mirror opposite them. Her braid was almost undone with random hairs frizzed and standing at odd ends. The red lipstick was smeared, faded. The thick woollen blanket brought out the crimson of her dress.

 “You alright, Ginny?” Jack appeared in the reflection. He too was wrapped in a blanket, his hair mussed up with the remnants of Genevieve’s lipstick coating his lips, smudged slightly on his chin.

 “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?” She leant against his shoulder.

 “Good,” Jack rested his chin on her head, “You know, this is kinda how we met: soaking wet, sorta dizzy, wrapped in blankets.”

 “Yeah, we’re just missing a boat and a bunch of Germans then we’d have a perfect recreation.”

 “Don’t forget Farrier. We can swing some paper planes from the lampshade.”

 The two moved to the living room, Genevieve undoing her braid after she tossed off her shoes without caring where they landed. She placed each pin on the sideboard, prepared to lose them for they were digging into her scalp. Done within five minutes, she looked up at her boyfriend who’d removed his blanket and was patting down his uniform. He looked so damn good in that uniform.

 “Thank you so much for coming with me tonight,” Jack said quietly, smiling at her endearingly.

 “I’m glad I did,” Genevieve stepped over to him and raked a hand through his hair, holding the back of his head gently. His lips looked just too enticing for her to resist so she gently kissed them. She wasn’t entire sure how they ended up in her bed but there she was, underneath Jack as they kissed with the same restrained fervour from their reunion. She wasn’t even sure if this was what she wanted yet she continued with him.

 Then he pulled away sharply, blinking rapidly and not looking her in the eye.

 “Jack, are you alright?” She whispered as she gently touched his face.

 “No,” Jack shook his head, swallowing hard, “I’m not.”

 Genevieve immediately shuffled up from underneath him, propping herself up, “We don’t have to do anything.”

 “No, it’s not that, believe me,” He denied, even as he allowed himself to be sat back down and take a few deep breaths, “I’d love to keep going. I’m just… overwhelmed.”

 “I don’t want that if you don’t feel good.” Genevieve stayed against the headboard, giving Jack the space he clearly needed. He nodded without control over his bobbing head. It was as though this was instinct, muscle memory kicking in to try and convince you that he was alright. His breathing went from mildly erratic to steady in a few minutes, exercising the great control he’d gained over himself.

 “I’m sorry,” He pressed his palms to his eyes then shook his hands thrice.

 “Never be sorry for that. It’s alright, my love,” Genevieve edged over to him, wordlessly asking permission to touch him. She knelt up to him and pulled him into a hug which he returned with relieved attachment. Genevieve was also relieved. She didn’t know if she was ready for sex again.

 “Do you want to stay tonight?” She mumbled into his shoulder.

 “Please,” Jack replied. He extracted himself away from her embrace and moved over to her chest of drawers. Opening the bottom drawer, he retrieved his spare set of pyjamas left there over a month ago.

 Clambering off the bed, Genevieve collected her own pyjamas from behind her pillow and went to her bathroom. She groaned with relief as she stripped down and into her comfy clothes. The supple cotton soothed the red indents left by her bra. Running the tap, she washed off her make-up into a flannel then headed back to her room as sleep started its takeover of her body.

 Jack was sat fidgeting with his sleeves, perched on her bed with his back to the door. As Genevieve gently patted his shoulder, he looked up at her, completely innocent to the fact that he still had traces of her marking his chin.

 “For the, uh, lipstick,” She held up the flannel. Jack went a colour complementary to the makeup staining his face. Smiling at him, Genevieve wiped away the red as soothingly as possible. Placing it folded on the bedside table, she followed him to lie down on the bed and curled next to him.

 “I would’ve much rather spent the evening like this,” He mumbled and, in her almost asleep mind, she thanked the higher power that Jack was still comfortable around her.

 Meanwhile, Jack’s thoughts drifted to something else. He spent an unnamed amount of time dwelling on it, feeling it weigh on his chest, push on his stomach, before he made up his mind.

 “I gotta tell you something,” He glanced down but Genevieve was sound asleep. He sighed, mostly with relief but a little with dread. No, he didn’t have to face this now. But after this evening, he would have to soon. That thought faded away, replaced by the daydream of his potential future – his potential children - as he too fell to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter Collins is thinking about is the draft one he writes in Chapter 18, just an fyi.


	27. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things never come out the way they’re supposed to, do they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings at the end of the chapter, scroll down to see them

 It was quite late in the evening but Genevieve was determined to get this task finished. After a day of work at his desk, she’d promised Jack she would spend the rest of the night with him, a wind down from the evening at the Red Lion yesterday. Unfortunately, she’d just used up her last bit of blotting paper and was in need of more.

 Jack was currently out, grabbing some sausages from the butcher for dinner, so Genevieve would just have to go without his permission. Rifling through his desk drawer, she tried to navigate through his belongings without disrupting them too much. She came up empty handed and leant back in his chair with a groan that matched pitches with the creaking of the wood. With her knees painfully knocking against the bottom of the drawer, she spied a disordered a stack of papers masked underneath the inkwells and the case containing the pair of compass and set squares. She figured maybe she could use one of those as a substitute and replace it later on. But then her gaze landed on something she couldn’t use.

 It was a photo. Collins and Farrier side by side, smart and suave in their uniform and unfortunately missing the hats. The distinct difference between the two hadn’t formed yet; it must’ve been when they first received their uniform. Farrier looked stiff in his blues, not the roguish rebel who ditched half his uniform in the air that Jack had described, that she had come to know. But Jack was still the same: prim, proper, suppressing a grin for the exposure of the photograph.

 Grinning, Genevieve observed the image with fondness. They were positively adorable in their uniform. She flipped it over expecting a date and description. She got one. Just not what she expected.

 

* * *

 

_13/05/40_

_Dear Farrier_

_I’m not even sure if I’m going to send this but if I do I hope it finds you well. That’s a lie. Some part of me hopes that you don’t get this and this will be destroyed. I’m so scared of what will most likely happen if you read this. If anyone reads this. But I can’t keep it quiet anymore. So even if this does just stay in my knowledge at least I’ve gotten it out of my head._

_I can’t express in words how I feel about you. I’ll try nonetheless. You make my world so much brighter and I feel like you’re the only solace I have in this war. Hearing your voice on the radio, seeing you buy drinks for everyone with a rowdy cheer to convince them that everything’s going to be ok. Yes, it’s only been a few months but what I feel is strong and clear._

_I know the world does not want us to be together and I fear you may expose me. But if you care for me as a fellow member of your squadron, a friend or more, you won’t tell anyone but me about how you feel._

_Collins_

* * *

 

 “Ginny?” 

 Slamming the photo down, Genevieve looked up to see Jack hanging up his coat in the hallway, tossing the package to the kitchen counter. But she couldn’t hide the evidence. She was stuck, holding the incriminating photograph for him to see. 

 And Jack did see. 

 He looked down at the open desk drawer, he then saw the frail sheet of paper in his partner’s hands. A drip of dread trickled down his spine and froze along it, spreading ice along his body to hold it in the awful realisation of what was happening.

 “Ginny, it’s not what you think,” He said immediately but Genevieve cut him off.   

 “So what is it?” Her voice was shaking and Jack struggled to talk with his regret clawing its way up his throat.

 “It’s a mistake,” He flinched at his choice of words, like thorns of a rose digging into his skin.

 “Back at the pub, you were staring… and I saw you hide these… I,” Genevieve clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a sob. How had she missed all of those indicators, countless ones building up to a size that swallowed her whole?

 “Do you love Farrier?” She looked at him with a broken expression and a cracked voice, “Do you even love me?”

 “I do love you,” Jack assured, braving a step forward. Genevieve had nowhere to go, backed into the desk with the photo in hand as her only weapon.

 “Do you love Farrier?” She repeated, harsher than before.

 Jack spent a long time trying to find the right words but the best he could come up with was: “I thought I did.”

 “You  _thought_  you did? When?”

 “When I first met him. I swear I don’t think that anymore. It was just a fleeting feeling that happened, a brief thing I mistook for affection.” Jack was lying through his teeth. He knew exactly what it was. And Genevieve saw right through him.

 “Then why do you still have this photo of all photos with that inscription? Why is it dated not a month before we met?”

 There was no reply. Genevieve fought the urge to crush the photo in her hand. Instead she placed it slowly back in the desk, staring at the pile of papers she’d found it in. How many drafts had Jack written to Farrier but never sent? How long had he been writing them? Was he still writing them?

 “Do I disgust you?”

 “What?” Footsteps crossed the room and Genevieve was forced to face Jack again as he stood before her.

 “Do I disgust you?” He forced out his words.

 “No.”

 Closing his eyes, Jack turned his head with a wince, “You hesitated.”

 “You hesitated the other night.”  _And now I know why._  “I need some air.”

 “Ginny,” Jack reached out for her but she jumped away.

 “No,” She held up a hand in warning to keep him away, “No. I-I need to think. I need time. Just let me be.”

 “Ginny, please!” Jack pleaded desperately as she walked out of the living room. He followed trying to get her to look at him but she stared at her feet as she pulled on her coat and left the flat, slamming the door behind her. The shock, the only thing keeping Jack standing, wore off. He crumpled to his knees, his fists colliding with the wooden floor in a stinging pain. Out of control, he hit the floor, then again, punching with rasping sobs until his knuckles were beaded with blood. Then he stalked back into the sitting room, the desk drawer still propped open.

 With a cry of pain, he grappled with the sheets of paper he so stupidly kept and flung them into the fire. He scratched at his face and yanked on his hair and cried until his throat was raw. The leaves of paper curled up into ash, orange fragments licked at each sheet. Months, years of his life burning away before his eyes and it felt like he too was encased in flames.

 One had just grazed the flames and was burning slowly before him.  It was the photo of him and Farrier together in their uniform, when they first received it. Scraps of conversation over its itches and constraints and formality were recalled from the recesses of Jack’s memories. Frantically he patted the orange glows out and cradled it in his cupped hands. Tears dropped onto the photo, soaking the burnt edges and blurring the image.

 Curling into his knees, Jack rocked himself like a baby, trying to calm down but his sobs just turned to sirens, long and wailing. It grew worse as he spied Genevieve’s cane resting by his desk. Her chronic pain had gotten worse with the weather and now she was out in the cold alone. And it was his fault.

 There was another sheet of paper that had escaped the fire. In a cruel twist of irony, he saw that it was the draft he wrote for his last letter to Genevieve back in 1942. His eyes landed on the paragraph he’d circled thrice – the one where he described having children with her. It was expanded upon in his head so many times that he didn’t have to try and remember them. The two imaginary offspring popped instantly into his mind as he scanned over the words – over the future he could never have now.

 Letting out a whimper, he ran and locked himself in the bathroom. His fists punched the door over and over. Blood was smeared onto the white paint. He rested his head against it, trying to control his breathing.

 He used up a lot of hot water filling the bath almost to the brim, stripped off his clothes and sat in the bath, the claustrophobia reminiscent of the tiny cockpit. It scalded his skin, turning it a shiny red. He barely felt it as he swayed in the water. He couldn’t even cry anymore. His life was over, hollow with utter despair. One of the only people that mattered found out in the worst way possible and he had lost them because of it.

 Temptation to drown himself arose but he couldn’t even attempt to lie back in the tub without triggering something. He figured that maybe he should try anyway, that he deserved the harm the trauma would cause. But he was too cowardly. Instead he stayed in the water for endless minutes, hours, he didn’t know, he didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Internalised homophobia/biphobia, mention of self-harm, mention of PTSD, mention of suicide


	28. Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collins has never felt more alone in this moment. There isn’t a lot he wouldn’t give to go back to before this evening, to feel normal again. But he’s not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings at the end of the chapter, scroll down to see them

 When Jack finally got out of the tub, his body was pruning. But he didn’t towel himself dry; instead he wrapped it around his waist and sat beside the bathroom door. The tiles felt slimy with condensation but he didn’t care.

 Suddenly the door opened and Genevieve with cherry cheeks appeared. Jack looked up in alarm but Genevieve merely shut the door behind her and took a seat next to him, grunting as she pressed against her shoulder. She didn’t say anything for a while, just stewed in the steam with him. Her nails scraped across her arms and Jack felt awful that he was the cause of her self-harm’s return, anxious to stop her but he couldn’t find any words or courage within him. He was even more anxious as he saw how much she was shaking.

 Jack almost jumped as she spoke, “I guess I knew that you loved Farrier to some extent.”

 “You did?” He croaked and Genevieve nodded.

 “You did admit it when you were drunk at your ma’s after Dunkirk. It was just me who heard,” She quickly cut off his panic.

 “And you didn’t say anything?” Jack tried to catch her eye but she continued to stare at her arms.

 “Of  _course_  I didn’t say anything.”

 Her eyes closed as she tried to control her trembling

 “I wasn’t honest with you,” she broke her silence and, while he wanted to press further, Jack stayed quiet, waiting for her go-ahead to speak. For a while she simply sat there, still scratching her arms with slow and deep deliberation. Jack wished that his ma was there to stop it like before.

 “I wasn’t honest with you,” Genevieve finally repeated, her hands dropping into her lap and twitching, “I’ve never done this before but I will be in control of how I do this.”

 Her right fingers then scratched her left knuckles as she ran over her words, thought out over the period of her absence and rehearsed many times. It seemed easier in theory. Now, not so much. Nevertheless Genevieve began to speak.

 “There was a girl called Gemma Bridgewell in the year above me in school. I worshipped the ground she walked on. I was desperate for her to notice me. I did the stupidest stuff to make her see me. I even pretended to suck at skipping so she’d teach me… I didn’t figure out that it wasn’t… that it wasn’t platonic until I was older.

 There were a few girls like that when I was growing up. But there was this one girl in France… before I met you.”

 Genevieve stopped and Jack saw that she was trying not to cry with her bottom lip quivering. Letting out a shuddering breath, she swallowed the lump in her throat then carried on.

 “Josephine. She was so kind. She took care of me, helped me communicate with the French troops, kept me sane during all the shit. It was secret, of course, but it was like heaven. She was so… She was just so…” Tears started to dribble down Genevieve’s face but she let them fall, her face crumpling.

 Her voice’s pitch then dropped and so did her tone, “But she disappeared. I don’t know if she died or if she just left. I wanted to stay in France to find her, argued like hell with my superiors to let me stay, but they made me get on a boat - well, you know what happened.”

 Sniffing, Genevieve trained her gaze at the tiles above the bath that blurred with her tears, her voice’s pitch growing erratically high as she stressed her words in an attempt to get out everything she wanted to say, “When I met you I was so scared that I was just projecting my feelings onto you because it felt nice, you know? It felt nice knowing that there was someone who I could have a relationship with and not in secret. But I didn’t even know I could be attracted to men and it terrified me. Still does!

 Now, I know I wasn’t – I’m not projecting. It was when you shared your blanket with me, when we were dancing, when you got me to try your shite tea, when you were doing the word search in your pyjamas. It all built up and I realised, as we got out the cab to the train station before you left that I loved… that I  _love_  you.”

 There was a moment of hushed space, interrupted only by Genevieve’s shaking violently from a chill in her chest and her crying. Swallowing several times, she gulped back her tears with humming that jumped at the sharp intakes of breath. Then she was quieter as her chin rested against her chest, eyes shut. Meanwhile Jack took in what she was saying, feeling the bearing of her soul sink through his skin.

 Genevieve looked at Jack for the first time since entering the bathroom, her cheeks puffy and tear-streaked. She slumped against the door with her head titling back, “I had to get that off my chest. I didn’t want it coming out like yours did.”

 Nodding, Jack looked down at his hands. This, this was how it was meant to come out: sat down and civilised without any interruptions or unexpected turn of events. Well, maybe scrap the bit being sat in the bathroom almost naked.

 “You still love me?” He said softly

 Genevieve let out a hollow and almost sardonic laugh, “That’s what you took from that?” But then she saw his face, pleadingly vulnerable waiting for her real response so, collecting her thoughts, she answered honestly:

 “I don’t want Josephine, not anymore. I’d like to know what happened to her but I know that’s just wishful thinking. I’ll never know and I’ve made my peace with that. She will always be my biggest what-if.  _You_  are the one I want to be with.”

 Jack swallowed back the lump in his throat, “On a side note: peppermint tea is not shite.”

 “It’s cold and it’s hot! That’s not normal!” She almost dropped them back into their regular repertoire but she realised something about what she’d said, her face creasing in distressed depair as she asked, “Are we normal?”

 With careful precision, Jack took her hand and squeezed it, “We began our relationship then had our first date three years later after thinking the other was dead for half that period. I don’t think anything we do really classes as normal.”

 In spite of themselves, they both started laughing. Maybe they needed to get it out because laughing turned into weeping. Jack dropped his head into Genevieve’s neck, her arm looping around his shoulders to pull him tightly against her. His hair tickled her nose to contrast with his stiffened skin.

 “Can you forgive me?” Jack sobbed, helpless to her sentence and Genevieve was a merciful jury.

 “There’s nothing to forgive,” She whimpered, “I love you so much, Jack.”

 “I love you so much, Genevieve,” He cried into her neck as they clung to one another. The humidity of the bathroom hung around them, hazing the hug and making it feel almost not real. But it was real. They were together, holding one another firm and grounded after a rollercoaster of events had thrown the evening into chaos. Even as they pulled apart, they were still close and stuck together to hold their beloved.

 “Sorry, I’m getting you all damp,” Jack mumbled rather pathetically, sniffling.

 Genevieve sniffed too, taking in the moist surroundings for the first time, “I think we’re square.” Then she saw the state of his hands and took them into her own, “What happened to your hands?”

 “I got a bit upset, um, after you left earlier.”

 “Oh darling, I’m so sorry,” Genevieve pressed his hands to her lips and held them there. She was cold, shaking as she did so and a tear slipped onto his cut to make it sting. Jack in turn manoeuvred her hands until they were in his and he clutched them to warm her up.

 “I’m so sorry I did this to you,” She croaked, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline, just as he had done on the Moonstone.

 “You didn’t,” Jack insisted but Genevieve stopped the argument from going further with a squeeze on his wrists.  With no room in his body for embarrassment due to his lack of clothing but enough for muted concern over her shoulder and leg, Jack allowed himself to be half-carried to their room. There, she laid him on the bed and handed his pyjamas. In the time it took for him to change, Genevieve returned, armed with a tray of various items.

 “I thought you weren’t a nurse,” Jack buttoned up his night shirt with his sore hands, watching her from his spot on the bed.

 “Ice in a tea towel doesn’t make me a nurse, Jack,” Genevieve half-smiled at him before pressing the bag onto one of his fists. He hissed from the stinging contact but it soothed him soon enough. With her spare hand, she carded through his hair, pulling him closer to leave kisses on his head. He saw that she was still shaking so he eased the ice “pack” from her grip.

 “I’m sorry you found out this way,” Jack rubbed his other hand across her arm, clumsily patting away the scratches, “I meant to tell you. I always did but I got so scared.”

 “I wish it didn’t come out that way. But I’m glad that it’s out now.”

 Nodding, Jack decided to return the favour of candour to Genevieve, “I never sent those letters to Farrier. I was too much of a coward.”

 “A coward for not wanting to be ostracised and possibly killed? Say it ain’t so,” Genevieve said with a bitter undertone, not directed at Jack but the rest of the world. Sensing that probing the matter further would do no good, Jack stayed quiet and swapped the ice pack over to his other hand.

 Genevieve looked up at him with an open expression before she pulled out of her trouser pocket a folded square, “I found this. I figured you should decide what to do with it.”

 Jack’s hand trembled as he prepared to face what he’d written “to Farrier”. But he saw that it was the draft letter with many topics he’d delayed telling her about. He sipped his peppermint tea – made exactly how he liked it. Then he shoved the letter into his drawer and shut it, “That’s an issue to be dealt with another night.”

 As the ice numbed his other hand, Jack shuffled against the headboard. Genevieve cleaned up his hands a little better before she left the room without a reason and took the tray back with her. Several minutes later, she came back in with another tray, something steaming off the top of it with a homey smell. It was the sausages, slightly burnt from their time in the oven and drizzled in gravy. It almost made Jack burst into tears once again. This evening was meant to be them making dinner together, mashing the potatoes inevitably still left on the sideboard and listening to the wireless.

 Taking the tray onto his lap, Jack placed his cup onto it, “Sit with me please.” He tapped the space beside him. Genevieve moved around the bed and took her place beside him.

 “Want some?” Jack offered his cup over and Genevieve swatted him.

 “Fuck off,” She groaned at the smell but Jack was not yet ready for more levity.

 “You’re shaking, love, you need to warm up,” He sliced then skewered a section of the sausage and passed the fork over to her, “At least have some food, please.”

 The fork passed between them as they ate through the pile of sausages until there was nothing but a few scrapes of gravy left. As both Genevieve and Jack required some more loving, they unbent to one another, closing in. Jack tenderly rubbed her arm, the friction prickling her skin with heat, before he pulled up the fleece blanket from the foot of the bed. He tucked it over her shoulders, kissing her cool lips softly as they both settled into bed.

 “Thank you for telling me what you did,” Jack lined his nose against hers.

 “Thank you for telling me too,” Genevieve nestled as close as she could to him, soaking up his heat, “I’m sorry for running out like that.”

 “Nothing to forgive,” He sighed softly, cuddling her and basking in her gentle smile that wasn’t disingenuous at all. His heart swelled with the pure happiness that he was not alone anymore.

 “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about that,” Genevieve touched his face, again an anchor to keep her in the present moment and a reminder that they were with one another, “I think you’ll be the last. But I couldn’t be happier to have you take my disclosure.”

 His hands traced along her arms, tuck under her head and tucked into her chest with the wrathful lines she’d scratched in faded now. They both started to doze off, Genevieve faster than Jack. As she slipped into sleep, he kissed her nose before allowing himself to drift off with one final comment on the matter.

 “I accept you. No matter what. You are my normal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Internalised homophobia/biphobia, mention of self-harm, mention of PTSD, mention of suicide


	29. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the following morning of their confessions and a rocky start to their Christmas.

 Jack’s nerves returned as he woke up to Genevieve shivering still at his side. Tapping her shoulder to wake her didn’t work like it usually would. Only when he started to speak her name did she fight to open her eyes, squinting at him with confusion. Her hums slurred and the symptoms added into the diagnosis of hypothermia from the frozen weather that had set into her body.

 “I’ll be one second, love,” Jack kissed her forehead.

 With his first aid training from his ma, he checked all the windows were closed then brought Genevieve another blanket to warm her up gradually. The worst thing would be to send her body into shock so he carefully and gradually warmed her up. Holding her tightly, he rubbed her arms through the pyjamas she borrowed. 

 He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t feel guilty. The effects of the night before were heavy on the couple. Genevieve was just as overwhelmed as he was, holding onto him tightly by his shirt. It wasn’t her fault or his as she’d made known at their reconciliation. But Genevieve wasn’t responding to anything he whispered to her. It was a gone day. Luckily Jack had helped Genevieve deal with these before and he knew what to do.

 Leaving for half an hour, Jack grabbed some items from her flat: dressing gown, more blankets, hot water bottles etc. Once home, he continued to care for her, helping her bathe, making sure she drank and ate enough as she had done for him before. Palliative care continued over the next few days, both hoping that maybe the illnesses would ease.

 Christmas Day came and Genevieve was reacting to the stimulus, the colour back in her cheeks. But she was still dreadfully sick and that meant their plans would have to be cancelled. Still curled into the covers to stay warm, she sank deeper into the bed with the crushing sadness of ruining three groups’ Christmases. The plan was originally to spend it with them and then travel to be with Genevieve’s family on Boxing Day – his first time meeting them. That was obviously not going to happen now.

 He hated to do this but Jack left her alone after breakfast, making sure to stoke the fire so she could sit in the living room without getting sicker. Then he went to go drop off his parents’ presents as well as his siblings’. For an hour, he stayed over to open presents and chat away their limited time. Ma immediately set about wrapping up two portions of dinner for Jack to take back. She easily accepted that all the family bundling into his tiny bedroom to see a sick Genevieve would not be the best idea. So she sent her son off with their love and the food.

 When Jack managed to unlock the door in a juggling act that didn’t result in failure, Genevieve was in the dressing gown and slippers, standing by the phone. There was a hoarse “goodbye” then she placed it back on the receiver. She was clearly gutted, especially after looking forward to seeing her nephew for a month.

 “How are you feeling now, Ginny?” He pulled off his gloves, cap and coat before he went to embrace her. Clinging to him with her arms wrapped around his neck, she hid her red nose in his shirt. He was gentle and radiating a warm comfort that she needed now.

 “I’m sorry, I ruined your Christmas,” She sniffled into his shoulder.

 “Stop that,” Jack spoke softly, cradling her head with his thumb grazing over the scar, “You won’t let me play the blame game and I won’t let you do that to yourself.” As he extricated himself from her grasp, Genevieve wiped her nose with her sleeve and Jack took her hands, “I couldn’t think of a better way to spend Christmas then quietly cuddling and opening presents with my lovely girlfriend.”

 Lifting her face up, Genevieve smiled up at him as she tried to believe him. Maybe one day she would. Seeking distraction, she asked if now maybe they could open their presents to each other.

 Dimples tucking into his cheeks, Jack nodded and grabbed the purple box he’d been eyeing since Genevieve had placed it there three weeks prior. When Genevieve was sat next to him on the couch and had tucked a blanket over her legs, he eagerly untied the ribbon, opening his box lid. Inside was a rich and thick burgundy leather strap with clasps at the end.

 “I know yours was worn out, barely held together,” Genevieve waited for his response.  

 To her muted delight, Jack immediately removed his watch, the frayed fabric now replaced with his present. His thumb rubbed over the smooth leather in awe. As he went to put away his box to kiss her, he felt an extra weight inside. Lifting the display for the strap up, it revealed Turkish delight, dusted in sugar and wrapped in a handkerchief.

 “Thank you, Ginny,” Jack kissed her temple with an arm squeezing around her shoulders, admiring his present.

 Offering her a piece, he popped one into his mouth. Struggling around the rather large portion, he held out a misshapen present that was neatly wrapped (considering its shape) in pink paper, “Feels underwhelming and a little bit cruel.”

 Genevieve’s fingers shook a little as she tore the wrappings. It was a soft cobalt scarf, the stitching supple beneath her fingertips. She let out a roaring laugh, something that surprised both herself and Jack with wheezing at the irony. She instantly unfolded it to wrap around her neck. Something cold fell out of the bundle into her lap with a clinking chime. Fumbling over her dressing gown, Genevieve’s hand came across his dog tags, one identity disc suspended below the other. Engraved in them were the Big Six and an additional  _RAF_  inscribed at the bottom.

 “I often thought about sending you these during the war,” Jack flushed in spite of himself, his cheeks matching the same shade of Genevieve’s as she placed the scarf around her neck and held up the tags.

 Then Jack gawped at his gift, “Oh shit, I forgot I tied them with a bootlace.”

 “You too?” Genevieve exclaimed quietly, checking the leather material that definitely a bootlace. At his frowned perplexity, she pulled out of her dressing gown pocket her tin of letters. It rattled as if it held something more than the precious papers penned by her partner. And it did. Prying it open, Genevieve pulled out her army tags, identical to Jack’s.

 “Bootlace,” She repeated and held it to him. Jack felt less humiliation as he saw the same standard issue bootlace looping through her tags.

 Then she dropped her identification into her cupped palm and held it out to Jack, “I want you to have mine as well.”

 It took Jack a moment to collect himself before he accepted the tags. Together, they tied the bootlaces around their necks and cupped the tags to read the printed letters. Genevieve was reminded when her sister received a promise ring from her now husband. It was like a promise, a reassurance, an expression of their love. Relief and reception once again washed over them both.

 Cheered for the first time in days, pleased as punch with her presents, Genevieve cuddled close to Jack who pulled her legs up over his, cuddling her close. The metal was a little cold, even through her pyjama shirt, but the scarf more than made up for it. Her nose now warmed up finally in the softness.

 “Can we have your Ma’s dinner now please? Before we open more presents,” She said, words muffled in the scarf comically wrapped around her neck.

 Jack rubbed her arm, tilting his head to hers as they leant into the couch in a bundle of heat. Then he wriggled from underneath her to heat up the meals. Cora had even packed some mince pies for them. Honestly this was his ideal way to spend Christmas, snacking in rooms he wasn’t allowed to in his first home, talking the day away with Genevieve in his arms, their recoveries well underway.


	30. Ménage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Genevieve’s illness now in recovery, Collins gets to meet his potential in-laws.

 Naturally Jack was nervous. His fingers tapped at the steering wheel as he turned into the driveway. Well, driveway, it wasn’t paved. It was two indents in the field, left by previous tyres, leading towards a house in the not so far distance.

 Genevieve would usually take his hand but decided to wait for a moment, let him figure himself out before making an interception. She had after all been assuring him for the past week (as well as herself after her departure to pneumonia). Settling for running her nails over the material of her trousers, she kept her eyes on the familiar “road” until they pulled up outside and Jack switched off the engine.

 “Ready?”

 “Yes,” Collins puffed out his rosy cheeks, “I just wish my meeting was less stressful than yours.”

 His hands slid down the cool steering wheel and fell into his lap, twitching ever so slightly. Nerves, not the cold, were the source so his gloves were not helping. Genevieve’s hand curling in his soothed slightly as did her complacent appearance in the scarf he bought her but the shakes began against as they approached the house.

 Genevieve was the one to knock, Jack stepping ever so slightly behind her. The door opened to reveal Lily who immediately tugged her sister into a hug, pulling her into the house.

 “Hey Lilly,” Genevieve accepted the hug graciously before stepping slightly to the left to make room for Jack, “This is my boyfriend, Jack.”

 There was a puckered brow that had formed on her sister’s forehead but it disappeared with a gasp as she pointed to Jack accusingly, “You’re the stranger I gave directions to!”

 “Yes, I remember you,” Jack’s face lit up somewhat at the familiar face.

 Lilly the smiled at him and greeted him properly a hug. The smile was dropped almost straight away as her eyes flitted over his shoulder to Genevieve. Genevieve did the same, befuddled that they had interacted before. An unlikely and unimaginable scenario that she didn’t have time to think about before a herd of footsteps greeted them in the hallway.

 “Aunty Gem!” James barrelled through the house and threw his arms around her waist. He’d had a growth spurt, now nine years old and dangerously close to growing taller than his grandmother.

 “Gem?” Jack questioned, smiling away as he let go of Lilly.

 “Yeah,” Genevieve mocked a sigh before looking down at her nephew with a grin, “Hey, you. You’ve grown a bit. But I bet I can still lift you.” A caricature of heaving her nephew up ensued before she neatly tossed him in the air then lowered him to the ground. Jack worried as she did so in case she put her arm and/or leg under stress but he saw how she put her weight on her good leg and figured that this wasn’t the first time she’d done this.

 “Come on in, you’re both going to get sick again,” Lilly ushered them it, James leading the way.

 Jack removed his scarf and coat and was in the process of pulling off his gloves when a woman approached him before Genevieve, worn hands outstretched to him.

 “You must be Jack! I’m Beryl,” She beamed, taking him in a hug as he spouted his own pleasantries. She was tiny in stature and rather skinny which meant that Genevieve inherited her appearance from -

 “Tony.”

 Yes. Genevieve looked so very much like the man approaching him with an outstretched hand, her father. Same cheekbones, same intimidating gaze, same stiff posture. For some reason, Jack felt compelled to say his rank, stand up straight and salute and even more so as William (Lilly’s husband) approached. Both hands were shaken and, after some small talk and providing his tea preference, he bee-lined for James who had been left to play with his Christmas presents in an attempt to stop himself from tucking his throw into the sofa cushions. His hand touched the paper in his pocket for comfort before he started talking to the child. 

 Meanwhile, Lilly stood beside her sister in the kitchen, eyebrows raised with expectancy, “So he was around your flat in September?”

 “I’m surprised you remember,” Genevieve replied, not with a scathing tone but with one of casual discussion as she checked on the potatoes. Her mother always boiled them too much.

 “And you’ve been seeing him ever since?”

 “Yes.”

 “Have you had sex yet?”

 “Lilly, that’s none of your business,” Genevieve said, flustered beyond belief that this was only the third question she was asked. Lilly squeaked some excuse of “my baby sister is dating an RAF pilot “married life was dragging” but Genevieve refused to give up that gossip.

 “No, thanks,” She laughed nervously before heading back over to Collins who was demonstrating how he was just as strong as her girlfriend with extra height.

 Both boys acted as though they’d been caught with one hand in the biscuit jar as Genevieve stepped into the room. But then Genevieve joined in with hidden reluctance and took turns using her nephew as a dumbbell until Lilly came in and berated her for being so rough with him. Thanking her for taking the heat, Jack sat beside James and the three played together while the rest of the adults took their allocated seats on the sofas.

 Conversation and therefore the spousal interrogation was short for dinner was swiftly announced. Once at the table, the family bowed their heads and they began to speak in sync a prayer Jack did not know. So he copied Genevieve and just lowered his head, joining in with the only part that he knew: “Amen”.

 He would never admit this out loud but Jack thought that Beryl’s cooking was almost level with his own Ma’s. Manners were intact mostly until the pudding was brought out: Lilly’s apple pie. On the board in the centre of the table, the flaky crust steamed with the condensation curling up to fill the room with the smell of cinnamon, cloves and of course apples. After an internal conflict, Jack took one bite from the pie and almost fainted into his plate with every single one of his sense tingling with that one mouthful.

 “How have you deprived me of this pie? It’s glorious!” He spoke through his mouthful, forgetting his manners in what was absolute delight. Genevieve shrugged as she watched him inhale his slice, declining politely when offered one herself. Jack would take her slice and finish that clean off with an enthused Lilly asking him questions about it between bites.

 To make up for his obnoxious chewing, he helped to clear and wash up. He spoke with Lilly some more as well as William who came to hang out in the kitchen – “keep him company” – to reinforce the protectiveness of the family that he was starting to feel the heavy hand of.

 Once complete, Jack went to get some air with the last slice gifted to him. On the porch, he watched Genevieve pushing her nephew on the swing just down the orchard. Her case rested against the tree. It was almost a perfect recreation of his photo except for the fact that they were bundled up in winter wear and somehow Genevieve’s smile seemed more genuine. He then realised Tony was stood silently next to him and decided to strike up mild conversation. It was pleasant but there was really something on his mind that he had to know.

 “I have something to ask you.”

 “You don’t need to ask,” Tony puffed on his pipe then used it the gesture down the garden, “My pickle was always jumping about from one unorthodox hobby to the next. Fickle Pickle, I used to call her. You fit her well, asking such a thing on the first meeting.”

 Taking a moment, Jack tried to decipher what question Tony thought he was asking. But then the man himself cleared up the matter. Jack didn’t correct Tony’s assumption on what his question was, leaving the query about his artwork on the walls for another time. The blessing could not be undermined lest it be retracted.

 Thanking Tony profusely, Jack took his leave, stepping off the back porch. With new found confidence, he sauntered over to them as he tied up his scarf.

 “Having fun?”

 “Yes!” James grinned, kicking his legs up into the air to try and swing himself higher. Genevieve gave him a little extra boost, pushing him so that his feet almost grazed the branches. This disturbance shook the tree and the wind carried the tradition. James and Genevieve laughed together as he swung higher, kicked harder, such a wonderful image that had seen Collins through his worst and may yet reward him at his best.

 He held up the slice that was now staining the grease paper to Genevieve, “I saved you some pie.”

 It seemed Genevieve was engaged with a stare off with this slice of pie before she said, “I don’t want any, thank you.”

 “But you love it,” Jack frowned. He remembered, in her letters, she just kept saying he needed to try this apple pie.

 “James, why don’t you run and find your mum?” Genevieve tipped the swing seat slightly to ease James off it, patting his back as she ushered him back to the house, “See if she’s got that new camera to take a photo.”

 She took a seat on the swing and folded her fingers on top of her knees, watching him run back to his parents. Then she turned to Jack with her smile gone, “I told George Mills, that lad on the Moonstone, I told him I’d sit with him in this orchard and share that pie with him. I said we’d flip off the cows, of all things. I made him a deal. And then he died.”

 A dismal wave washed over Collins as he also remembered the newspaper clipping in her shortbread tin. Faded and threatening to tear with every movement but she kept it all the same.

 “It’s so daft,” She let out that laugh that was devoid of joy, “I barely knew the lad. But he saved me and he made me tea and I couldn’t do the same for him, not even the tea, and it feels wrong to be here.”

 Collins rewrapped and slipped the pie into his pocket, replacing it with his handkerchief. Appreciating the offer, Genevieve twisted it around her forefinger before wiping her cheeks. Tired from the interactions of the day, she looked over to where her nephew was chatting to his father, unaffected by the war completely.

 “I see him in James,” She sniffed, “They have that same heroic naivety. James was always going on about sneaking over to beat the Nazis. God.” She pressed her knuckles into her forehead as her fingers started scratching the air. Immediately, Jack took her hands and squatted in front of her as she cried quietly.

 “He’ll be back soon, I gotta bloody calm down,” She sighed, drawn out to try and steady her breathing.

 “Do you want to go?” Collins loosened her scarf to give the illusion of space to breathe and it helped. Genevieve managed to get a hold of her breathing pattern, returning it to a regular pace.

 “No. I’ll be ok. I don’t want him to feel bad about something that isn’t even his fault.” She sighed again, wiping the last of her tears before standing to hug her boyfriend and return his hanky.

 They’d forgotten that Tony was watching them from the porch but he was gone by the time they looked up at the house for James’ return. After the photo was taken, they made it through another hour of “chatting” which was mostly an interrogation on every family member’s part aimed at poor Jack. Tony sat back. Unbeknownst to everyone else, he had already conducted his questioning and come to a positive conclusion.

 Jack tackled these questions neatly, despite some of them being invasive. He was comforted once again by Geneviev at his side and the paper in his pocket, additionally so when James climbed into his lap to show off his toys. Answers interjected approval (from the Hastings to Jack and from Jack to James).

 Three on the dot, the couple excused themselves from another of James’ games to get back before dark, hugging and shaking hands before promising each other that they would spend the night at Genevieve’s.

 All the way home, Genevieve was quiet just as Collins was the drive there. He didn’t try to make her talk. He knew George even less than she did. When they pulled up to her flat, she thanked him quietly and went to go upstairs. Jack locked his car and followed her in without struggle. Genevieve went straight into her room, leaving the door ajar. Not following just yet, Jack removed the pie from his pocket that was now a little warm. He plonked it in her breadbin and made up some toast and tea - the epitome of British relaxation. 

 Genevieve was sat on what had been designated to be his side of the bed whenever Jack would stay. She was wearing her dressing gown and pyjamas underneath. Jack re-entered his room with a tray occupying his hands. Together they ate supper leaning upon one another for support. Then, from his pocket, his hand pulled the piece of paper that had stayed folded in their all day. He passed it over to Genevieve.

 “This was my first draft for the final letter I sent you during the war.”

 To his surprise, Genevieve pulled her shortbread tin out of her dressing gown pocket and filed through its contents. Finding the last letter between the penultimate letter and the newspaper cutting, she pulled it out and clipped the tin closed. Then she held up the two frail sheets of paper side by side, spot the difference with his true thoughts and his edited version. Jack waited and watched her scanning eyes for her reaction.

 Genevieve lowered the letters to rest in her lap and looked upon him with an inquisitive frown, “Children?”

 “It was rather impulsively written; I thought you were gonna die,” Jack said slowly although he had been quick to jump to his excuse. Releasing a breath through his nose, he pressed his lips together then spoke, “But I know I meant it and I still mean it now. I don’t mind if you don’t want -”

 “I do too,” Genevieve interrupted. Taking a quick breather, she traced her fingers over the first draft’s smudges and the final draft’s indents from where pen had touched paper then repeated, “I do want children. But maybe we should save this for when we’re a little more collected and I’m not thinking about someone else’s child.”

 “Of course,” Collins said breathlessly, sharing a smile with Genevieve, “I just wanted you to know and I wanted maybe to give you something to look forward to.” Kissing his cheek, Genevieve thanked him and passed back his draft but he declined, his own hand guiding the letters to the tin in her pocket.

 “I want you to keep it. Besides, I don’t need it anymore… Gem.”

 “Shove off,” Genevieve sarcastically scolded, “I let you have ‘Ginny’.” 

 She smiled down at the draft again then proceeded to return it with its others. It wasn’t as wide a smile as earlier with James yet it was just as winsome as her smile’s always were. That daydream of his, married life with two kids in the house with sunflowers and cosmos in the garden, today it all seemed to be brought into real life with two conversations. Things were really looking up.


	31. Sentimental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter’s bucket list from 1943 is complete with a trip to the fair.

 “Come on,” Genevieve dragged Jack by the hand towards the Ferris Wheel, “Come on, come on, come on, come on!”

 “I’m coming, my darling, slow down!” He laughed at her childish impatience.

 Genevieve kept tugging him without restraint in her happiness. It was just as she had been in the museum only now neither of them was under the burden of their secret, her pneumonia or even her limp (as much). They ran faster, more careless, no fear of rejection from one another looming over their heads like a raincloud.

 After getting minor whiplash on the Dodgems and taking pleasure in going on the Waltzers before they’d eaten, the Ferris Wheel seemed like a decent place to unwind.

 The two were sat in the cart and the bar was laid over their laps with Genevieve’s cane as an added comfort. They received an odd look from the person in charge of the ride. A quick glance at the adolescents in the queue implied that Jack and Genevieve were not the target demographic for the Ferris Wheel. That didn’t stop them from grinning giddily as the Wheel started up. They whooped with every loop of the ride, arms raised to feel the air shift around them, make way for their traverse.

 They reached the top; the brightly coloured lights and music muted and an island amidst the black horizon. The weather bit Genevieve’s nose and cheeks so she tucked her scarf over them, condensation flying from her warm breath.

 “God, it’s cold,” Jack rubbed his hands then blew into them.

 “Here,” Genevieve pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket, “Take this.”

 “Ok,” Jack said slowly as he held up the left glove and Genevieve took the right one.

 “What, do I put both my hands in it?”

 “No, put it on your left hand,” Genevieve said in a “no-duh” tone. Once Jack did so, Genevieve took his bare hand, linking her fingers in his then rubbed the back of his hand with her gloved one.

 “There,” She smiled, “Problem solved.”

 Jack held up their linked hands and pressed a kiss on the back of hers, “You are unbelievable.”

 “Thank you, I know,” Genevieve beamed, her legs sticking out over the edge of the cart – not rocking it, just feeling the cold wind cut past. Then she tilted her head against Jack’s shoulder, looking up at his wistful gaze surveying the horizon, “Do you miss flying?”

 “Sometimes. I miss it more than the people shooting at me.”

 “We can share that.”

 Collins chuckled, his laughter no longer wheezing with sickness. Their hands closed around each others, rubbing the bare skin to warm it up and rising into the air as the Big Wheel started up again. Cheering mixed with groaning now, the pair huddled up together to stay warm and were somewhat pleased when they got off.

 Her words muffled in the scarf, Genevieve mused allowed, “You must’ve used all your wool coupons for this.”

 “I refuse to discuss the expenses of your present,” Jack said, taking in the inky coloured material that matched the sky before dropping his voice to continue with a contradiction, “And it was not all of them.”

 Nudging him gently, Genevieve looped her arm through his, “Let’s eat some ‘clouds’.”

 Exchanging a few coins, reserving the last couple that they had for the next activity, Genevieve and Jack each bought a stick with the candy floss whirled around them. Genevieve got stuck in immediately, eating messily, whilst Collins plucked of portions to roll into bite size pieces. Their jaunty walk around the fair resumed.

 “You have some stuff stuck to your cheeks,” Jack laughed at Genevieve through his sugary treat that melted on his tongue.

 “You have something on your cheek too,” She pointed to his skin that was red with the cold. As Jack touched it to wipe away this alleged something, she touched her lips to his cheek and wiped the sugary remnants of her candy floss onto it. Jack flinched away with a giggle.

 He was then distracted by the coconut shy at the very edge of the fair. Instantly he made a beeline towards it, ready to show off to his spouse. Genevieve followed him to stand next to the stall. As he juggled with his money, she leant her cane against the stall and munched on her candy floss.

 He placed his balls on the counter and passed one to Genevieve in exchange for her candy floss, “Here, let me show you my technique.”

 Jack passed hers and his candy floss to the stall vender, who accepted rather surprised to be more involved in these customers’ antics. But he was paid so it was alright.

 Genevieve groaned in fake annoyance as Jack stood behind her. His hands found her waist to pivot it and her throwing hand. Then he took her through the motions and instructed her on how to aim and throw. Jack knew very well that Genevieve could knock all the coconuts off given the chance. But she was currently snorting away in embarrassed laughter as he pretended to guide her.

 “There, now it’s your go,” He stepped aside, looking like a proud coach sending his protégée into their first competition.

 Genevieve missed the first one. It wasn’t unnoticed by Jack that she rubbed her shoulder before going again but he didn’t step in, trusting Genevieve to know her limits. She hit the coconut with the second one and that one wobbled. The final one, she knocked it off the stand and it landed with a thump on the ground. The pair crowed with success, Genevieve taking a bow before she was awarded her candy floss and coconut.

 The stall vender looked rather displeased when Jack paid for his turn and nailed the coconut in the centre, sending it toppling onto the ground on his first try. With the prizes, the pair skedaddled off the other way around.

 “I can’t believe we’ve become  _that_  couple,” Genevieve mused aloud, her coconut resting in the crook of her arm, “See what relationship stuff we’ve been missing out on.”

 Jack nodded in agreement, “Amazing what sentiment will do to you.”

 Genevieve would’ve protested, simply because she liked this banter without consequence, but then her candy floss shrank away from her. It was melting with a single but masterfully aimed drop of rain.

 “Caught in the rain again. This is becoming a tendency for us,” She remarked casually as Jack buttoned up his coat. She took his hand and the pair went to stand under a shelter to wait for the pre-April showers to pass. It wasn’t long. Mother Nature was sporadic in her rainfall this year.

 The rain was lessened after thus the walk back was slow. Genevieve’s leg had begun to ache ever so slightly but, with her new physiotherapy timetable, it was easily manageable with a steady stride.

 Ever the gentleman, Jack shared the last of his candy floss with Genevieve. That eased the pace a little more, with the conversation of attachment and it wasn’t long until they reached Jack’s flat.

 “Drink?” He offered, hanging his coat up on the hook as Genevieve went to grab a towel for him.

 “No thank you,” She called, “Would you mind if I used your bath a bit later?”

 Jack minded a hell of a lot but he didn’t say anything.

 “You could join me too, might get sick again and we don’t want that. Cora would kill me. By the way, how was she when you went to see her today?” Genevieve reappeared and immediately began to rub Collins’ hair dry. He smiled as she fuzzed it all up to the right, completing his windswept appearance.

 “She was fine, and she wouldn’t kill you. She adores you.”

 He didn’t miss the twitch of a smile from Genevieve. She was pleased that his family likes her. Finishing off his hair by brushing her hand to smooth it out, she flipped the towel over to wipe her face and pat her clothes down as she walked into the living room.

 “Ginny?”

 “Hmm?”

 She turned and saw that Jack was holding out his cigarette tin to her.

 “Could you open it please? Bloody thing gets stuck.”

 Naturally, Genevieve accepted. There was a dull rattle inside when she attempted to pry the tin open. That confused her initially but then maybe he kept her dog tags in there with her old letters to him.

 “Maybe it’s time you got a new one,” She mused through gritted teeth, the tin staying securely sealed.

 Jack shrugged helplessly, “I’m too attached.”

 “Now that’s sentimentalism,” Genevieve said smugly, trying a new technique of yanking the lid.

 “Careful!” Jack said with an urgency that was a cause for concern. It wasn’t as if the letters would break open falling out. But still, Genevieve listened and began to wiggle at the lid, easing it open. It was like the man had fastened it with super glue. She managed to open it up but almost dropped it, causing a clatter and both her and Jack to grab the tin. Opening it slowly, she saw that her dog tags weren’t there.

 A simple gold platinum band with a diamond connecting the two ends sat on top her letters.

 Genevieve stared at it with a frown. She understood instantly what was happening but her body was still trying to catch up with the speed of her mind. She was unmoving, barely breathing, ready to answer the question Jack hadn’t asked yet.

 Heart constricting in his chest at this response, Jack lifted the cigarette case from Genevieve’s loose grip. He struggled to keep his balance on wobbly knees but he managed to get down on one. His expression was drawn in a hopeful smile as he plucked the ring out. It took him a moment to remind himself to speak slowly and he was glad that he hadn’t planned anything too extravagant.

 “I want to help you through your bad days and feel you near me whether I’m well or not. I think I’ve wanted to ask since the evacuation, which is too long coming. I should’ve listened to Farrier when he said ‘marry this woman right now’. So, Ginny…” He paused, an unbearable silence, and Genevieve was terrified that he might fall over, “Genevieve, will you marry me?”

 “Yes,” Genevieve said with quick conviction, glad that he only had a short speech or else she might have interrupted him.

 Jack sprung off the floor with a squeak and threw his arms around Genevieve, the case snapping shut so that the ring wasn’t lost. There was no need for him to contain himself any longer. It coincided with Genevieve’s grasp on herself returning. He scooped up Genevieve, her arms locked about his neck, and spun her about his sitting room. Her feet nearly clipped several pieces of furniture and wall before she was placed back down. Neither had noticed in their frenzy of emotions.

 “It was my gran’s; had to check today if my mum was alright with it,” Jack started losing his words, “Might have to resize it. I couldn’t wait.”

 “That’s ok,” Genevieve shook her head, grinning widely as Jack tried to reopen the tin to put the ring on her finger. He managed to do so without losing the ring and, with shaking hands, he slipped it on. It was almost a perfect fit.

 “Is it like a competition then? The first in the family to get engaged gets the ring,” Genevieve said without looking away from it. Her hand pivoted slightly to see the diamond catch the light.

 “No, but I’ve won anyway so it’s alright,” Jack joked before getting back to giddiness, “I’m getting married to you.”

 “God I love you,” Genevieve said, breathless as she kissed him on both cheeks and then his lips with her arm slung over his shoulders. Her hands linked at the back, warming to the new addition on her left hand.

 “I love you so much,” Jack mumbled back against her mouth, kissing her with his grin permanently fixed on his face.  

 Before she could become overwhelmed again, Genevieve pulled back, “I know the perfect way to celebrate.”

 Half an hour later, the pair was sat at opposite ends of the bath, bubbles reserved for special occasions filling the tub. Two coconuts sat in split halves with two spoons beside the fragments. Legs were tucked up to fit. Jack scooped out the meat of the coconut to eat his prize whilst Genevieve finished adjusting the strap of her bra for comfort’s sake. Wet undergarments were not the most accommodating.

 But she was not content to stay on her side of the bath. Abandoning her coconut, she shifted onto her knees in front of him. She took one of his bottles and shook it to get the shampoo down the right end.

 Jack got the message and placed his food aside. He shuffled forward; his legs crossed and pulled up to his chest as Genevieve rubbed the oil onto both palms. Both giggled as Jack hummed with the feeling of his hair being washed, his eyes closed and mouth drawn up in a smile. Still giddy, Genevieve smeared a little collective of bubbles on the tip of Jack’s nose for her benefit.

 “Your turn.”

 Genevieve offered to spin around which Jack was grateful for. Her hair became slick against her scalp as he rinsed it before washing. He thumbed over her scar, subtly lifting a layer of her hair to see it. It was barely visible under the soap suds and new hair growing around it.

 With all hair washed and rinsed through into cleanliness, the pair settled into a cuddle. Genevieve remained in Jack’s chest, both sinking into the water, until the temperature dropped below their liking. Then came the next step in celebrations: Genevieve towel drying Jack’s hair into a frizz.

 “Thank you for asking me,” She spoke when she was done, grinning and holding onto the final vowel.

 Dipping his head down, Jack kissed her shoulder’s scar through her pyjamas, “You’re welcome. Thank you for taking me.”

 She stayed in his lap, her right arm bent at the elbow to create a neck rest for Jack as he looked up at her. He beamed contented when Genevieve brushed back his thick (if slightly damp) hair with her free hand. When he kissed her again, she reciprocated with soft tenderness, with an intimacy he craved for the longest time and it was now a standard. Genevieve was always more elated with Jack, after her worst and in her best. Now she’d get to feel like this every day.


	32. Admin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning a wedding is a hell of a job. Luck Genevieve and Jack have each other - and Genevieve’s sister - to help ease the stress.

 Switching off the car engine, Genevieve took a moment to breathe. It was a rush at the bakeries after a phone call that had reminded her of the dress fittings were this afternoon and she’d only just found out (the day before, from Ethel) that it was Jack’s bloody birthday. A date so significant but he’d never mentioned it in letter or in person. Three months into wedding prep and only now did she find out? She felt rather shit for not asking beforehand.

 She took a deep breath and pushed off the steering wheel to go inside. Kicking the door closed, she swung the bag about as she walked up the stairs to Jack’s flat. Hers was pretty abandoned at this point.

 Opening the door, she stepped into the flat and tried not to groan at the sight of Jack with his finance tracker open.

 “Are we thinking sandstone or eggshell napkins?” She joked upon entering.

 “What? Clearly eggshell, anything otherwise would be insane,” Jack remained in his chair as Genevieve greeted him with a quick peck. Plonking herself in the chair opposite, she dumped the bag on the table with an over-dramatic sigh.

 “I swear to God, Lilly is more into this wedding planning than I am,” She dropped her head onto a neglected wedding dress magazine Lilly had bought a week before.

 Jack ran his fingers through her hair, covering his sniggering with a cough and looking at his piece of paper that was completely covered in scribbles, “She made me a checklist, you know: flowers, menu, venue, invites, table decorations… chair sashes.”

 “What the fuck?” Genevieve lifted up her head slightly before dropping it back onto the table, “People put sashes on chairs? Why would you spend money on that?”

 “Make the chairs look pretty,” Jack chuckled.

 “People actually do that?” She sighed with disbelief at such people and their airy fairy ways, shaking her head for emphasis on her thoughts, “No, I don’t want to be outshined by a chair.”

 “I highly doubt that could happen.”

 Lifting her head, Genevieve shuffled her chair closer to Jack to lean against him. She called him a sweet talker then kissed his cheek in thanks for the compliment. Jack returned the kiss on her parting as he flipped the list aside and turned the page to show off the budgeting to his fiancé.

 “I got a call back from the hotel and they say we can have the function room and the restaurant is ours too for a fraction extra,” He pointed to the possible deposit they could make on the venue, “Sure you don’t want to marry in a church?”

 “No church,” Genevieve decided, opening the borrowed bridal magazine Lilly leant her.

 “Your family ok with that?”

 “Nope.”

 “Are you doing it to piss them off?” Jack tried to catch Genevieve’s eye on this one.

 Looking away as she shut the magazine, already bored to tears with the brides gushing about the styles of dresses, Genevieve replied, “Nah, I just don’t want to be shivering at the head of a stone cold aisle when I marry you.”

 Jack felt a warm tingle in his stomach whenever Genevieve said that – which was a lot. She seemed to get a buzz out of bringing up their engagement too. When she looked back at him, she didn’t look bored or weary but buzzing behind the smile that brightened his day.

 “What’s in the bag then?”

 “Aha,” Genevieve sat up and brought the sides of the bag down to reveal many small pastry boxes, “Cake testers. All free. Happy Birthday.”

 Eager to get some rest and ignore their ever diminishing budget, the pair spent their lunch break laying on the couch and tossing cake into their partner’s mouth to see what took their fancy. So far, they were rejecting the posh combinations simply because they sounded gross. Their mutual hypothesis was confirmed after they tasted the segments gifted to them.

 “I still can’t believe you never told me your birthday when we met,” Genevieve spoke around a carrot cake before spitting it out.

 “Didn’t think it was necessary, we’d just been evacuated,” Jack shrugged, swallowing his.

 “Still, we could’ve gone out, maybe a proper dance hall instead of your living room, made a day of it,” Genevieve argued good-naturedly.

 “Are you kidding? It was the best birthday I’d ever had!” Jack said incredulously, palms open to the sky with his fork balanced between his right thumb and forefinger, “Spent it dancing with you to Glenn Miller and eating my Ma’s cooking, nothing can top it.”

 “What about this for the cake?” Genevieve tossed a chunk of chocolate cake into his mouth, “It was only two dances!”

 “Nope,” Jack shook his head for emphasis, spitting the cake into his reject box, “And it was still the best birthday.”

 “Bet I can top it. With three dances.”

 “Three whole dances, gee miss soon-to-be missus!”

 Genevieve giggled before trying another portion of the vanilla sponge, a second opinion, “Are you gonna be in your number ones? Or a suit?”

 “We went with a suit. Match the boys. You?” Genevieve tapped her nose with her fork and grinned. “Not fair, I told you!”

 “I’m going for a fitting this afternoon. Maybe when I see the finished result I’ll feel more generous.”

 Annoyed, Jack threw a piece of white sponge at Genevieve and he aimed it so that he deliberately missed her mouth. Genevieve groaned in annoyance and recovered the piece from her lap. It actually wasn’t bad so she opened her mouth in request for another piece.

 “Simple yet delicious, I like it,” She commented. This prompted Jack to try some and to agree with her. The decision made, Genevieve sat up and brushed the crumbs off her front. It could be cleaned up later. Tomorrow. Oh, at some point in the future. Jack stood with her and showered his crumbs onto the carpet.

 “When I’m back, we’ll make a date of it,” Genevieve squeezed his hands as they planned to go, “I promise.”

 “Any day with you is a day made,” Jack kissed her cheek with a cheesy grin that said “you can’t be mad at me, it’s my birthday”.

 Genevieve squinted at him in an attempt to mask her embarrassment, “You sicken me… kiss me again?”

 Jack obliged and kissed her other cheek, “Have fun at your fitting.”

 “Oh, I will,” Genevieve rolled her eyes as she took her leave from the flat, cane in hand to walk to the dress shop. Last minute changes to a wedding in a few weeks looming, it was gonna be another long afternoon.

 

* * *

 

 It’d taken a while, well over an hour, of Genevieve fidgeting and chatting mindlessly to the dressmaker. She could barely stand it because there was never a less interesting conversation to partake in. Her legs jiggled and she was told to keep still many a time.

 Worst part, there were no mirrors in sight so Genevieve couldn’t see what was going on. She eased her eager mind on trivial topics like whether she was going wear her grandmother’s veil or not.

 But finally the dressmaker stuck one final pin into the netting and stepped back. Moving into the focal point of the three mirrors, Genevieve’s hands curled around the silky fabric that was to be her wedding dress. Her eyes stayed glued to her reflection. The tulle rested daintily on the white, the polka dots only spotted with the movements of the skirts and her hips. She could feel the movement against her knees. A translucent collar to highlight the sweetheart neckline, it was a fancy and expensive version of a dress Genevieve used to own.

 Something she was comfortable in. That was the goal. And she was comfortable. But it was something more. She felt beautiful. With her hair messed with stress and pins and clips holding the material in place, barefoot in the back of the dress shop, she felt beautiful.

 “Oh darling.”

 Genevieve didn’t even notice her “bridal team” entering. Her mother instantly burst into tears after her comment. Lilly, Karen, Ethel and Cora passed hankies and comments amongst themselves, about how Jack was going to lose it, how Genevieve should have her hair done, if any more amendments were to be made about the length of the dress.

 “Are you ok?” Lilly touched Genevieve’s shoulder, “You haven’t said a word.”

 Her gaze was unfocused as she simply watched at the reflection. Normally, she would’ve rolled her eyes at all this attention and fussing but it was as if she was being open to the idea of a big white wedding for the first time.

 “I’m fine,” She said blankly. Then a smile crossed her lips, “It’s just… I’m getting married.”

 “Damn right you are,” Ethel grinned back.

 Lilly squeezed her sister’s shoulders, careful with the material as she leant in and whispered, “If Jack doesn’t cry, I’ll get up and kick him until he does.”

 “Thanks, Lilly,” Genevieve turned to her. They shared a smile, shoulders nudging together as they looked down at the dress’ skirts. Her trembling hands were resting on top of them, the polka dots highlighting the ring as her fingers twitched against the netting.

 After a few more tears were shed, the dress was taken off her with measurements noted. Beryl was adamant to keep it from Jack and planned to pick it up in a week to keep at her house.

 Her cane making a jaunty beat with her footsteps, Genevieve smiled the whole way home. She was absolutely in the mood to go out dancing, go to the pub, do whatever. She was getting married to Jack and that was all that really mattered at the moment. Not the weeding prep, not the house hunting, not the budgeting.

 She very nearly kicked down the door to Jack’s flat, she was so exulted. But she bottlenecked her emotions into using the front door key like a regular person. Jack waved at them from his spot by the cabinet.

 “Hey, love! Now I know you said you wanted to take me out, treat me to a dance hall, but honestly I’m good to just stay in.”

 Ignoring this, Genevieve walked right up to Jack and hugged him tight. Her face leant into his neck. Jack wasn’t entirely sure what prompted this but he loved her hugs. They made him feel wanted. His arm tightened around her waist in a snug grip in hopes of reciprocating that feeling.

 “I’ll do whatever you want, anything for your birthday. You name it and we’ll do it.” Genevieve pulled back and lined her nose to his with a grin so wide she thought it might fall off her face, “I love you.”

 With a smile confused as to where this affectionate outburst, Jack kissed her softly and replied, “I love you too.”

 Then he sidled over to the record player he get from his family for his birthday, “So, anything?”

 Placing the needle on the record he’d already set up, he sidestepped back into the hug. A slow melody played from the box. It filled the room with a tune that had a signature flair to it. Genevieve begrudgingly recognised it but did not complain. The melody was nice.

 “Practise our first dance?” Jack beamed, holding his arms out in a new position. Genevieve knew that they wouldn’t be having a first dance in front of people at a reception. It would be in the hotel room they booked for one night. She eagerly placed her hands in position for she couldn’t wait for that first dance.

 “How was the dress fitting?” Jack asked with a teasing tone.

 “Bit boring but,” Genevieve lingered on her connective, “It was lovely.”

 “Lovely, eh? Feel more inclined to tell me about your dress now?”

 “Nope,” Genevieve shook her head. Jack let out a moan of annoyance, his head lolling back. He begged again, asking for it for his birthday present and bringing up that she said she’d do anything for him. But Genevieve had inherited stubbornness from her mother and kept her mouth shut, knowing the pay off would be much sweeter. Jack knew this too and eventually buttoned his lip.

 Their slow dance position shifted from clasped hands and straight postures to the pair embracing one another, barely shuffling to the tune.

 Then a faster tune played up and Genevieve took this as her cue to mock Jack’s dance moves from years ago. He started to laugh and then he copied her, movements identical to 1940, and she was glad that he hadn’t improved. She would’ve looked like an idiot otherwise. Here, they looked like idiots together. Idiots about to get married.


	33. Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Househunting and final wedding preparations combine but Jack is unsure about some of his choices.

 “Ok, thank you for your time, we’ll let you know!”

 Jack waved off the estate agent with a charming smile before turning in the opposite direction to drop it.

 “No way,” Genevieve linked her arm in his.

 “Never in a million years.”

 “Shit location and there was so much damp.”

 “Didn’t even try to hide it,” Jack scoffed, “Putting up a portrait does not solve the problem, bad sign from the off.”

 The pair was out of fuel and times were getting rough with rationing still implemented. So they were walking between flats and houses that were contenders to be their future home. Thus far was a blend of disastrous and mediocre encounters. One of the estate agents couldn’t even find the right key to get into the flat.

 Now they were taking a break, for Genevieve’s sake at least. But since they were nearing the final wedding planning decisions, taking a break meant going to organise the bouquet. Neither Jack nor Genevieve had an interest in flowers, spare for sunflowers and cosmos which Genevieve begrudgingly accepted as beholders of her sentiment. Jack’s victory under his belt, this appointment was likely to go fast.

 “Your mum will go bonkers if you have sunflowers,” Jack mumbled as they took a seat.

 “Yellow and white? Poppycock!” Genevieve quoted under her breath, “That’s why the plan is to include blue or red in there. Besides, it’s our wedding. She can die mad about the flowers.”

 Cosmos were going to be hard to come by so apparently, their options reduced, Jack and Genevieve opted for sunflowers and roses. Traditional and personal, a perfect combo wrapped in a sheer blue ribbon for the taking. A satisfied Genevieve and Jack left the shop to walk slowly to their next appointment with another estate agent.

 It was at the edge of London in the suburbs, all picturesque. The scent of petrichor from the rain of yesterday lingered in the front garden, the gate creaking and swinging in the wind. Jack immediately made the note to buy some oil to fix that, as if he lived there.

 This estate agent was the same as the others: bright smile, obviously had a thesaurus of positive adjectives for his breakfast, not a hair out of place on his head. Genevieve and Jack greeted him pleasantly with the hopes that perhaps this tour would be more successful. They followed him through the garden that was rife with pansies and over to the bold red front door which was already ajar for them.

 With every room, ticking the boxes according to the agent, Genevieve explored whilst Jack spoke to him. She took in the rustic homey décor that reminded her of comfort. There wasn’t a smell and she couldn’t find any bubbling wallpaper behind artwork. The sitting room and kitchen were fair sized, floor boards without creaks. All the furniture had minimal chips as if it was preserved to be perfect, unlived in. No wonder the house was pushing the limit of their housing budget. Still, Genevieve ignored that factor and based her opinion of the house on its contents.

 “No mold or damp,” She informed her fiancée under her breath. Jack held back his chuckle as they followed the agent upstairs.

 “This would be your room,” The agent opened the door and stepped aside for them to see. It was plainly decorated, not overly spacious but enough room for the two of them to live comfortably. Enough to personalise and space on the wall for their posters, it seemed lovely.

 “Could we have some time alone, please?” Genevieve asked. Obliging, the pair were left alone and Rory’s open expression asked him what he thought.

 “I don’t know,” Jack walked about the space, “I’m still on the fence about it.”

 “Well, we’ve still got the garden to go,” Genevieve squeezed his shoulder, “And we don’t have to move out now.”

 Jack took her hand from his shoulder, squeezing it back, “I just want to be ready for when we’re married. I want to have a home I can come to with my wife.”

 Seeing their mutual smiles in the mirror of the bedroom, Genevieve moved closer to Jack for a half hug as he continued, “Want to carry you over the threshold of  _our_  house, not some flat we rent.”

 “Big dreams you’ve got there, my love,” She grinned at him with the catalyst of their marriage mentioned (and only being a few weeks away) providing her with glee, even at such a chore as house hunting, “I want that too. A house for us and our children, this could be it.”

 A rush of butterflies to Jack’s stomach made his smile grow.

 They tracked past the unsmelling bathroom and back to the other bedroom; it was already made up for a child. But it was barren, untouched and Genevieve recalled the estate agent mentioning that the family had suffered a loss which led to the house being placed on the market. It didn’t take much to put the visual clues together. Genevieve placed a hand on the side of the crib, running her fingers across the bar.

 “Would you prefer a boy or a girl?” She asked.

 “Both,” Jack let slip way too quickly.

 “Of course, the letter,” Genevieve recalled his little daydream, “Both would be nice.”

 Arms around his midsection, Genevieve heard and felt Jack’s giggles at her statement when she pressed her cheek to his chest. He kissed her hair and for a moment they stood quietly whilst they were thinking on their final decision about this house

 “It would be nice, our baby in here,” Genevieve finally spoke.

 “It would be,” Jack agreed, then he sighed deeply, “I just wish there was a sign.”

 Genevieve laughed as she moved away, “A sign, since when were you superstitious?”

 “Since now.”

 Rolling her eyes, Genevieve took Jack’s hand and tugged him back downstairs where the agent was waiting ever patiently for them. The trek into the back garden through the bottom floor and Jack’s thoughts about it were refreshed as he followed out the back door.

 Above them, the sky was not shielding the sun from them and Genevieve squinted with a hand shielding her eyes. A washing line connected from the house to a stake halfway along the garden. Flower beds ran the circumference of the garden walls, breaking at the gate that adjoined with a public path running behind the house. Fresh air stirring with the still present smell of petrichor brewed in the sunlight.

 Genevieve strolled down to the end of the garden, focussing on the length of it. They could have their own private picnics here, maybe one with their friends, maybe one with their baby. 

 “Genevieve,” Jack spoke softly, tugging her hand.

 “Yes, Jack?”

 Upon turning around, Genevieve looked to the flower beds lining the house’s wall that Jack had nodded to. Bright orange cosmos. Genevieve sighed with an air of disappointment then burst into giggles.

 “Hell of a sign.”

 “You’re telling me.”

 After a quick and silent exchange via their stare, Genevieve turned to the estate agent, “Well, where do we sign then?”


	34. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year, Genevieve and Jack have been together; their big day is finally here.

 Awaking alone after almost a year of the opposite was a strange feeling. Genevieve stretched languidly in the unfamiliar bed.  Once up and out, which took a few seconds contemplation, she rehearsed her physiotherapy. The culmination of months of work. She was unsure about whether she should rehearse her walk a little more lest she push herself too far.

 Then her sister arrived and the calm was broken.

 “Why haven’t you come down for breakfast yet?” Lilly squeaked, “Big day!”

 “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Genevieve mumbled, longing to collapse back into bed. Later, she remembered the one lump in the mattress directly underneath her back and the desire faded.

 A hearty breakfast was laid out across the table. Genevieve didn’t think she could stomach it. There was a hint of sickness in her stomach for a last minute invite had gone out and she’d been somewhat regretting it since she dropped it through the post box slot. No mention of it was discussed with Jack, something she was regretting even more. But at least she would find out the result in a few hours. Fucking hell, a few hours.

 Felt like longer as she ate, washed herself and slipped into her freshly washed dressing gown. Lilly could be heard downstairs with her son and husband, chaperoning them about to go

 Genevieve did her own hair and makeup. Her “bridal” team was merely a formality, the women of the immediate families. They were getting ready downstairs at her request. But that didn’t stop them from occasionally poking their head around the door and squeaking something before dashing back downstairs to relate to the crew what her current status was. The only assistance she required was getting dressed. The dress was tighter than before but not so much for it to become uncomfortable. The issue was the buttons that lined her spine. Her mother helped her out there and Genevieve spent the next few minutes thinking about Jack without distraction.

 He was in a small hotel function room with the few chairs in rows already filled with the guests, stood at the makeshift altar with his best mate Farrier and his brother Toby at his side. This was something he’d thought about briefly in his early RAF days, marrying Farrier in near matching suits. But now that couldn’t be further from what he wanted.

 “Fifteen minutes, still time to make a break for it,” Toby whispered.

 “So you can have Ginny? No chance,” Jack let out a laugh.

 “Damn, you saw through my cunning plan,” Toby snapped his fingers before leaning in to whisper, “How’d you know she’s not already waiting for me in the car?”

 “Helluva woman,” Farrier broke in and the two men glanced at him, “Marrying helluva guy. You’d be ridiculous if you thought one of these kids would leave the other at the altar.”

 “You mean the collapsible table,” Toby snarked as Jack flushed at the compliment before busying himself with his mother sat in the front row.

 “Eh, same difference,” Toby shrugged.

 A collapsible table, no bridesmaids or over the top procession, just their nearest and dearest watching the ceremony and coming for the wedding breakfast. Simple, limited attention, despite Cora’s best attempts to “give them the wedding they deserved” which might have featured doves and fireworks. All that was missing was the bride.

 She was nearly outside, tightly gripping the bouquet in the back seat of the car that was stuck in mild traffic.  The end of today couldn’t come sooner.

 Finally, Tony parked the car in his reserved spot, outside the hotel. He skipped around to open the door for her. She stepped out, feeling the heat of late July prickle her legs. Thank goodness she wasn’t in heels.

 “God, I’m gonna fall over,” Genevieve muttered as she glanced at her cane left in the backseat of the car.

 “I’m here, pickle,” Tony took her arm, perfect father of the bride, “Squeeze if you need more support.”

 “Hello, Aunty Gem,” James beamed at her with shining cleanliness. It disgusted them both so Genevieve tousled his hair a little. Lilly sighed at this but passed James the box with rings in them, ushering him after his father.

 “He just wanted to say hello,” She excused, swallowing before she finished, “I don’t think I’ll have to kick Jack. You look beautiful.”

 “Thank you, so do you,” Genevieve tried not to duck her head with the compliment, “Is everyone in? Uh, I don’t suppose you’ve seen an old man and his son come by. You wouldn’t know them.”

 “No, why?”

 Genevieve restrained a sigh. Of course they wouldn’t be coming. An invitation and the first letter in three years explaining all was not enough to convince two strangers to be at the wedding.

 “Just wondering, don’t worry.”

 That disappointment was replaced by the worry she assured others about, a spike of anxiety, one that also met with Jack. He stopped talking to the notary when James trotted down the aisle, clutching a small box and singing loudly that “they’re coming”.  Lilly then quickly entered, repeating what her son had said before taking her seat beside her mother. An unorthodox beginning to the ceremony but that was the way with him and Genevieve.

 His back was where she would appear and it stayed that way as he heard the door open. But he couldn’t stand it much longer and risked a peek for the first time in a day – that might have been a year. Jack wasn’t surprised, but still felt the full impact, that she looked so utterly radiant. In a dress that was simply a sleeveless, white polka dot version of his favourite and she was so far away – a whole twenty five feet. When she started moving towards him, his hand came over the right side of his face before pressing into his cheek to hide his tears. It didn’t work at all. Then he saw that Genevieve was walking without a cane, without a limp and he was gone, crushing his sobs and his laughter into his palm then closing it into a fist.

 Very nearly did Genevieve fall to the same fate. She knew that Jack wasn’t going to be in his RAF uniform and thank goodness because he was so much more attractive in a kilt. Both hands occupied with the bouquet and her father’s arm, she had nothing to hide her smile behind. It only made her more beautiful.

 After what seemed like hours, Genevieve reached the altar and, out of her bouquet, she pulled out a folded hankie. A wave of murmured laughter rolled through the room, Jack joining in as it was passed it to him.

 “Thanks, love,” He dabbed his eyes dry.

 Genevieve bit her lip which did nothing to hide her smirk, “Don’t mention it.”

 With his tears mopped away, Jack tucked the hankie up his sleeve and the notary began the service. Genevieve kept checking Jack in the corner of her eye. It was hard to look away from such a vision.  Occasionally she caught him looking too and they shared a smile.

 If there were any objections to the ceremony, everyone held their peace – apart from Toby, who conveniently cleared his throat after this was made known. Proceeding, the notary signalled for James to bring the rings to her. He did so with immense pride. His smile looked as though it would fall from his face as he passed them over. Genevieve and Jack shared that respect as they each recited the vows with their names inserted to that chain of words. Jack went first and he beamed at finally learning Genevieve’s middle name, then came Genevieve who already knew his from grilling him about the subject months before.

 A new ring sat on their left hands and it was with bubbling giddiness that such words were spoke: “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

 Already, Genevieve had her arms around Jack’s neck so all that was needed was a gentle dip of Jack’s head for them to seal the deal. Clapping from around the room echoed into the distance as they pulled away and smiled at one another.

 “Hello, husband,” Genevieve whispered, rubbing her nose against his before cutting off his reply with: “Do you have any briefs on? I’ve wanted to ask since I saw the kilt.”

 “Well,” Jack raised a brow with what was meant to be a smirk but ended up being a gleeful grin, “You’re not supposed to. It’s tradition.”

 “Really?” Genevieve said disbelievingly, yet she was still smiling.

 Jack’s glow shifted from dusty pink to fuchsia, “No scants under these petticoats.”

 The pair giggled like children at the thought of going commando and kissed again.

 

* * *

 

 “You bought the cottage then?” Tony asked. Genevieve naturally rolled her eyes because of his tone. Even on her wedding day, he was interrogating her partner. Still, it couldn’t be helped and he wouldn’t sway her mind or heart.

 “Yes, we managed to get that set of paperwork sorted out before this one,” Jack patted her hand in her lap and brushed his fingertips over her ring.

 Ethel then jumped in, “So no honeymoon?”

 “No honeymoon, but plenty of time off to ourselves, plenty of furniture to build,” Genevieve sighed, causing the table to snicker. In all honesty, spending time setting up their house to however they wanted, alone, was a perfect honeymoon in her eyes.

 Dinner arrived and everyone continued conversation between mouthfuls. Genevieve and Jack barely parted contact, their hands returning to one another as if the rings were magnet and iron. Not that Jack would have minded if they were because a fad during the war, popularised by the absence from loved ones, meant that he could wear this token of affection and commitment. He could not be happier to wear one.

 Despite holding prior knowledge of minimal speeches being a part of this ceremony, Farrier finished his dinner, downed his drink, then launched into his retelling of, when he first met him in RAF training, Collins being a skinny little bastard with knobbly knocking knees and a naïve smile that would not see the light of day once he started drill work.

 Feeling the tranquilising effects of the alcohol, Genevieve pushed back her chair and leant over to Jack, “I need a quick break.”

 “Do you want me to come with you?” Jack asked, throwing a glance at Farrier finally taking a seat.

 “No thanks, you stay,” Genevieve assured.

 She then excused herself from the table and those seated at it, heading over to the back garden’s entrance. Passing the notary leaving the function room opposite, Genevieve stepped outside. It was a pleasant little section enclosed in the centre of the building and completely empty. Stretching her arms upwards, Genevieve linked her fingers and cracked her knuckles upwards with a deep inhale. The smell of the flowers dotted about in pots soothed any other anxiety she felt in that moment.

 “Sorry we’re late.”

 Genevieve turned to the voice and saw Mr Dawson removing his hat with a smile as he finished, “I saw you heading out here. Thought I’d catch you.”

 A little stunned and almost lost for words, Genevieve nodded. Then she found those words: “No worries. We’re just having drinks, would you like to join us?”

 “No thank you. I’m driving. I don’t trust Peter with my car just yet.”

 “Peter?” Then the man himself appeared as if he were waiting to be named dropped before making an appearance. Of course he wasn’t still wearing the red jumper she’d seen him in six years ago. He was dressed in a casual suit like his father, minus the hat, and he looked so much older.“I should slap you for not writing back, you cheeky bastard,” She joked. Luckily, Peter saw the levity in her statement and his body language slacked into relaxation.

 “How are you both?” She continued, “Still sailing?”

 “Try and stop us, every weekend.” Peter looked to his dad to see if he had any input on the small talk. But Mr Dawson was looking indoors, through a window. Jack was rocking back and forth with laughter in his chair at something Karen had said across the table. Genevieve could see that no one else thought it so funny and that Jack didn’t care about that.

 “I can go get him,” Genevieve offered but Mr Dawson cut her off.

 “No, that’s alright.”

 There were tears in the old man’s eyes and Genevieve suddenly remembered that Jack was RAF like Mr Dawson’s eldest son. She felt rather stupid for not recalling this sooner and fidgeted with her hands. Filling the silence, Peter cleared his throat.

 “We can’t stay. We just wanted to come and say congratulations,” He tugged on his coat sleeve before stepping forward and offering his hand for her to shake. Instead, Genevieve opened her arms for a hug and Peter graciously accepted, though he had to bend over a little bit.

 “You got taller, I swear,” She mumbled over his shoulder forgetting that he was only a few years younger than her.

 “Skinnier, actually,” and there was a hint of a smile on his face when he pulled back.

 “Yeah, well, make sure you eat your crusts,” Genevieve quoted her sister’s mantra to James, “Get some hairs on your chest.”

 The smile widened as he backed away, moving towards the reception. Mr Dawson and Genevieve followed, a few feet behind him so that they could talk too.

 “He rather fancied you,” Mr Dawson muttered with a sly smile.

 “I won’t say anything,” Genevieve promised, “Is he alright though?”

 “He’s doing very well.” Mr Dawson halted, looking like he was struggling to say something. Genevieve kept the silence a little longer to let him figure it out. Slowly he took Genevieve’s left hand in his then gave it a careful pat.

 “I’m glad that, if anyone was to survive the war, it was you two.”

 Suddenly swamped with the possibility of crying, something she vowed not to do, Genevieve swallowed thickly, “You too. Thank you for coming.”

 She walked with him through the reception and out the front, Peter at the far right side of the street where they were parked. Staying by the door, Genevieve watched them climb in. She didn’t notice Jack joining her side until he tapped her shoulder.

 “You alright, love?”

 “Just waving a guest off,” She said quietly. Jack followed her line of sight, brows furrowed until he saw Mr Dawson place his hat back on his head before getting into his car. The couple stared with one astonished expression and one of tearful happiness as the car pulled out and drove past their venue, honking the horn with an arm out the window waving at them.

 “Let’s go back to our reception,” Genevieve said, taking his hand and leading the flabbergasted Jack indoors.

 

* * *

 

 The rest of the day was a blur. At some point, Genevieve picked out a rosebud, free of thorns, from her bouquet and tucked it behind Jack’s ear. He was a little tipsy on the fact that it was his wedding – and the champagne that his brother Toby had ordered. He was giggling at James who was screwing up his face in disgust after a sip. The cake arrived and naturally Jack and Genevieve tossed each other pieces of cake into their respective mouths as opposed to smashing a piece onto their cheek. Farrier was all for that however and did it to both of them. James was about to join in but then the in-laws intervened, preventing an all out food fight.  

 “Sweet like you,” Jack had said after kissing off some of the icing from Genevieve’s cheeks. So naturally, she licked his cheek in return.

 The families dispersed once the cake was doled out and the newlyweds were shown to their room by the concierge who had brought their single bag up earlier for them. It was a beautiful room. A double bed in the centre, an en-suite to the side, it was lavish with plump pillows, oak furniture that all matched, and lit up with a soft yellow glow from lamps dotted about. Money well spent, even if it was just one night.

 “So, I suggest we take all the complimentary shampoos and soaps and biscuits,” Genevieve took off one of her shoes and sighed in the relief she felt, free from its pinching grasp. Once the other shoe was off, she flopped on the bed and sighed again, smiling broadly at Jack who was lingering in the doorway, undoing his tie after hanging up his jacket.

 “Come here, you,” She beckoned with a pat on the space beside her.

 Doggedly, Jack quickly kicked off his shoes and tugged off his hose. He landed next to Genevieve with a little leap onto the bed. Her hand curled around to cup his face that was smiling back at her, especially as he felt the new addition of her wedding ring comfort his skin. She then wriggled closer, her cheek snuggled into his shoulder.

 After tracing across her arm for a few moments quietude, Jack rested his hand atop hers and said softly, “I can only think of one instance where you’ve been more beautiful than you are now.”

 “Oh yeah?” Genevieve said teasingly although her cheeks alerted Jack that she was flattered at such a remark. He hummed to draw it out a little before he decided to finish his thought.

 “When I saw you for the first time after the war was over,” He said as his chest swelled with remembering their intense and joyous reunion, his smile aching on his face, “A sight for sore eyes if there ever was one. It felt like that again, when I saw you at the end of the aisle.”

 For once, Genevieve didn’t tell him to shut up. Instead she pushed up and kissed him, short but sweet. She then sat up but kept her back to him, talking over her shoulder:

 “Help me out of this please? I want to lie down comfortably with my husband.”

 Jack let out an eager giggle, hoping that she would catch on that he liked when she called him “her husband”. Such a lovely title he never thought he would be appointed and yet here he was, helping his wife out of her wedding attire. Well. He was  _trying_  to help anyway.

 “I love the polka dots but God there’s so many buttons!” He grunted, fingers fumbling over them in an attempt to release her.

 “I know, it’s ridiculous,” Genevieve groaned, “There should be a hook on the dressing table.”

 There was and it aided Jack in popping them out. Jack tensed as the dress slacked, contrasting with Genevieve’s sigh of relief. It wasn’t a very tight bodice but movement was heavily restricted in such a device. The sigh was clearly held in from the moment she put it on. The sigh was also very obvious in displaying the comfort she found with Jack. They shared baths, for goodness sake.

 Jack suddenly leapt for the drawer, “Wait!” Then he yanked out an envelope, “Vows!”

 Neither of them wanted to disclose these vows; they were personal and their families did not have to be witness for these vows to mean something. So they decided to include them in the wedding but when they were alone. Now.

 Dress still holding most of its position against her body, Genevieve retrieved her own envelope from the plant pot and dusted off the soil that clung to it.

 “You wanna go first or me?”

 “You go first.”

 Shuffling on his feet, Jack cleared his throat then spoke, “You make me so much better with your awful taste in tea and your quips so I vow to celebrate you every day, in ups and downs and whatever direction you feel you’re going, I’ll be there take make us the ultimate team.”

 Then he said at a quicker pace, “I also vow to dance with you at least once a week because I know you secretly love it.”

 Genevieve shook her head as it dropped, hiding the eye roll in sheepishness, “You cheated; we said one each.”

 “I know but I can’t really pin down how I wanna treasure you in one single vow. You’re lucky that was the only two.”

 Wrinkling her nose at him, Genevieve rubbed it against Jack’s that was screwed up in solidarity, “I love it, and I love you.”

 “I love you too. Your turn!”

 She copied his technique and coughed to ease the lump in her throat then started reading off the paper, “Something you told me a few months ago: ‘you are my normal.’ You do not know how much those words mean to me. It wasn’t really the moment I knew I loved you for there are plenty of those. It was the moment where I knew you were the one for me; you were as committed as I was in spite of everything. I vow to make you feel as safe and as loved as I did when you told me that, because you are my normal too.”

 There were no words to say back to that. All Jack could muster was hugging Genevieve tightly. Their breathing synced up, grips loosened, emotions settling down, the couple found themselves swaying. It was a first dance they could both get behind. Until Jack started humming a nauseatingly familiar tune that made Genevieve laugh more as he spun her out with a dramatic flair.

 “We have a radio!” She reminded him, “Not that I don’t appreciate your gorgeous vocal chords.”

 “Ok, first song that plays will be our song.” Once in agreement, Jack side-stepped to the wireless and switched it on. After fiddling with the tuner for a few seconds, Genevieve sighed loudly whilst Jack beamed as the very same song began to play.

 “I didn’t even plan that!” Jack squeaked with excitement, drawing back to his wife and offering his hand, “May I have the pleasure of the first dance with you?”

 “You may,” Genevieve said with a sigh that was meant to come across as reluctant due to the song choice. However, it appeared more whimsical as if she was about to be swept off her feet. She settled for that; it was more accurate to how she felt.

 Their foreheads connected as Genevieve placed her hands on Jack’s shoulders, his already on her waist. Kisses intermingled with soft laughter. A hand swept through Jack’s hair and Genevieve’s fingers then curled underneath the bootlace that held her old tags, toying with the knot that rested below the back of his hairline. His were still hanging around her neck. Her fingertips grazed the nape of his neck caused Jack to shiver with delight for at the back of his mind, near those fingertips, lingered a reminder of the final tradition of a wedding: the first evening together as husband and wife.

 It was as if Genevieve could read his thoughts for she touched his face tenderly with concern in her expression and he leant into it, eyes closing at her gentle palm on his cheek

 “You know we don’t have to do anything tonight. I know you love me and you know I love you. It’s not the be all and end all.”

 “I know,” Jack said with a hint of relief as he opened his eyes, “But I want to. Do you want to?”

 “I do too.”

 “I-” He was cut off by Genevieve’s stomach gurgling loudly and she went a darker shade of pink as he commented: “Hungry?”

 They giggled as Genevieve’s tummy gurgled some more to answer for her. She didn’t have to say it was nerves; they already knew that. To shut him up, Genevieve leaned over, switched off the wireless.

 “Are you alright?” She asked. She needed to hear that he was alright, especially since he started staring past her for a moment.

 “Sorry,” Jack excused when he came back to Earth, shaking his head a little. A strand of hair fell into his forehead as a memory of December came to mind. He fidgeted with the scratching material of his kilt as he glanced at the bed then back to Genevieve. There was a nervous laugh with his next sentence: “I only know what I’m doing in theory.”

 “I’m with you there,” Genevieve said, taking his hands away from the wool.

 It wasn’t that Jack expected her to be a virgin too but he was still a tad surprised at their shared experience, “So you’ve never…”

 She shook her head, “No, not with a man.”

 _Ah._  Jack nodded, accepting the connotations of that revelation, “That’s ok; I’ve never done it with a man either.”

 The pair burst into giggles and suddenly it occurred to them that this didn’t have to be such a serious affair like every eavesdropped conversation or snippet of gossip had told them. It could be whatever they wanted. And all tension dropped from their bodies.

 Leaning his forehead back against hers with an uncontrollable smile, his voice teeming with joy, Jack said, “I love you.”

 “I love you too,” She replied, punctuating her words with kisses, “So. Damn. Much.”        

 Lightheaded, Jack reciprocated. He tried to pull off his waistcoat, but he did so with such haste that he ended up getting his elbow stuck where his arm once was. Genevieve didn’t realise for a bit, simply petting his hair to placate his eagerness, but then she caught sight of his half T-Rex impression and start laughing again.

 “You can slow down, my love,” She helped him out of his predicament, “Can’t rush these things.”

 “I’m just excited,” Jack said, sounding ever so slightly out of breath.

 “Me too.” Genevieve found herself experiencing the same symptoms as Jack started to unbutton his shirt, placing a hand on his chest as she continued, “But we have all night. All week.” Jack nodded, understanding what she meant. Honestly, he didn’t want to rush either. So he kissed her again, more gentle, appreciating the present moment where Genevieve was touching the sliver of skin available from his shirt’s now plunging neckline.

 Taking a deep breath, Genevieve pulled away and held up the hook between their faces, “Now, get me out of this dress.”


	35. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve’s first one with Jack, and as his wife, is a compilation of everything she loves… and furniture organisation.

Their wedding night was simply spent in each other’s company sans clothes. They were rather tired from everything, even though it was a small event, so all they did was kiss and talk and sleep. Since then, Genevieve and Jack had grown much accommodated with each other and each other’s bodies. They were happy to be completely comfortable now in one another’s company, even if insecurities still ran amok. That night was thirty days ago and a majority of that time was spent in their new home. Most of the furniture was constructed, the painted walls were dry and the house’s repairs were complete. It was just a matter of where the furniture should go and filling the place with all of their belongings or finishing touches. Jack had been going to work for the last week but today was a Saturday thankfully. Even more so since today was a very special day for them.

“Ginny, the light of my life, my sweet, my darling… time to get up.”

A groan emitted from a lump beneath the quilted bed covers. Chuckling to himself, Jack clicked his lighter to create life in a flame and held it over the candle that he had stuck in the hefty slice of the pie Lilly had made for them for their “honeymoon” three weeks prior. He moved on his knees over the bed to get closer to the lump.

“Hope you’re feeling better, cus you’ve got one hell of a breakfast.”

Another groan was heard.

In a sing-song voice filled with teasing, Jack leant lightly atop of the lump, “You know, I’m real jealous of it. I might eat it myself if you don’t want any.”

The covers shifted. Then Genevieve rose from the covers, automatically reaching for her nightshirt nearby that had been discarded in disgust for the August heat. Her eyes landed on Jack and his overly happy appearance for this time in the morning. Then she drifted to see the pie and eagerly propped up her pillows to wriggle up against, one reserved for a makeshift lap tray. Jack placed the plate upon it and squished beside her.

“Make a wish,” He beamed. With an affectionate eye roll, Genevieve then closed her eyes and blow softly. The candle flickered then went out and Jack tucked an arm over her shoulders and kissed her cheek, “Happy Birthday, my darling.”

Genevieve kissed Jack’s cheek in return. They shared the slice of apple pie in the usual style of alternating who held the fork to feed the other, humming at its warm pastry crumbling in their mouths to blend with the chunks of fruit inside.

Once finished, Genevieve fluttered her eyelashes at Jack, “Do you have any presents for me?”

“That was your present,” Jack said, with a smile that said otherwise.

Then he pulled out a gift from his pillow tied up neatly with a blue bow. Biting her bottom lip, which did not hide her smile at all, Genevieve unwrapped her present with the fidgeting fingers. In the centre of the paper was a photo frame, delicately detailed around its silver edges. Inside the glass was a photograph of a couple that Genevieve didn’t recognise at first. Once sleep slipped from her eyes, she realised it was her and Jack at the altar a few seconds after they were pronounced husband and wife.

“Look at that,” She spoke softly, cradling it in her hands to see closer before lifting her head up, “How? We didn’t have a photographer.”

“We had Lilly. She was kind enough to bring her camera and take some photos,” Jack said as he shifted on his backside with zeal for how Genevieve was reacting.

The plural in his information cued the back to pop off and three more photos fell out: one of them exchanging vows with Genevieve holding the ring just before Jack’s finger, one of them walking back down the aisle together still giggling with the bouquet blurred mid swing, and one of them sat together at the wedding breakfast, heads tilted together as they whispered and their hands held on the table.

Genevieve was very overwhelmed by this present and surprisingly began crying over each photo, moving them away so she wouldn’t get them wet, “You look beautiful. You should wear your kilt more often.”

“Only for you,” Jack kissed her cheek, “And any other wedding we attend.”

“No, we can’t have you outshining the groom on his big day,” She patted his shoulder before going to wipe her eyes.

Jack squeezed her and lifted up the photo of them walking down the aisle, “Enough about me being beautiful, get a load of you, looking so gorgeous in front of everyone.” His finger mimed tapping photo Genevieve under the chin

“Your Ma called me bonny,” Genevieve wiped her face on the blankets.  

Genevieve and Jack stayed in bed a little longer than normal. The only other exception to that was the other day when they’d taken a three hour nap waiting for the paint in the nursery to dry. Genevieve cuddled up with Jack and they looked at every detail of the photos, so clear.

Suddenly, Genevieve’s stomach growled and she felt the stale ache at the back of her head that told her: in the next minute, she would be sick. She tossed off the covers and made a dash for the bathroom, feeling the contents of her stomach burning up the back of her throat. Retching over the bowl, she brought it all up into the toilet. Her head twitched with the rank smell filling her nostrils.

Jack murmured as he rubbed her back, unfazed by the smell, “Alright, Ginny, there we go.”

His words of encouragement weren’t heard over her being sick and heavy breathing. Once finished, Genevieve leant her forearms on the toilet seat with a sigh, “Great way to start the day.” Sipping on the water Jack handed her, she made a note not to eat any more of that pie.

Her sickness was soon forgotten when she moved downstairs once her teeth were brushed. Jack had listened to Genevieve’s wish and wore his kilt as well as a sleeveless shirt. His hair was fluffy today, without product or comb. Whether it was intended or not, it was another birthday present. It took a while for her to stop staring at him, especially when he bent over to pick up the whisk he dropped.

“I will admit, it feels good in this heat,” He said aloud once righted, swinging his arms folded and perpendicular to his body. His kilt spun with his hips, swishing above his knees.

“My pretty trophy husband,” Genevieve kissed his cheek from behind as a knocking at the front door sounded.

Gifts from her family that now included Jack’s were opened when they all visited for an hour and a half at the start of the day. Collins and Hastings collided in their jovial and polite fashions, surrounding Genevieve with conversation as she bounced James on her knee, tickling him when she wanted a little time out from his eagerness. Lilly kept the vulgarity down but smirked once she spotted Jack’s attire, especially when he excused himself with the heat for his reason and Cora slapped him with a tea towel to “put a proper shirt on”.

And, when the family was gone and Jack took his “proper” shirt off, the day continued as normal. Final decisions were made with the radio blasting throughout the house. Organising the lounge was fairly quick in its completion: sofa before the fireplace and cabinets against the walls. The same went for the nursery but that room was mostly empty, used for storage of knickknacks they had yet to shelve and home.

Lunch in the garden was just like their first date: throwing food at one another, discussing the merits of Genevieve’s nicknames (and if Jack had called her “Eve” from the end of her name as opposed to ‘Ginny’), snacking on homemade shortbread and kissing under the clouds on a soft blanket. This time, there were cosmos all around them for Genevieve had spent a lot of time in her breaks babysitting the flowerbeds. Bright colours bordered her sight, framing Jack perfectly as the work of art she saw him as. She never wanted it to end but there were still jobs to do and, as much as she’d like to, she couldn’t simply spend all day lying about. At least she knew what her personal heaven would look like now.

However, the bedroom was a longer expedition.

“I still want the bed by the window,” Genevieve moaned as they lifted together again.

Jack pivoted from the heavier end, so that Genevieve would not strain her injury, then halted in the centre, “In the middle will be better. Otherwise you’ll have to climb over me to get to your side.”

“Who said I was still gonna be sleeping that side?” Genevieve raised a brow, almost as if she were saying “aha!” but Jack copied her expression and she knew that it was a useless fight. She gave up, placing her side of the bed down in synchronicity with him, “Ugh, fine.”

Jack daintily placed it back down “Thank you for your compromise.”

“How will you ever make it up to me?” She pouted at him.

“Hold that thought,” Jack leapt from the room. Genevieve remained on the bed, frowning after his fleeting form. She didn’t really expect that to work. Within the minute, Jack reappeared, sliding into the room with his hands behind his back and he was smirking too. He trilled a verbal drum roll and pulled out his hands. They held the two posters of Van Gogh’s work that had not been seen since they were packed a month prior.

Genevieve took them into her own hands, treating them with great care. She then promptly burst into tears at the sight of them back with her, clutching the posters to her chest. Rather alarmed, Jack got down on his knees before her and rubbed Genevieve’s arms for comfort.

She shook her head and surprisingly let out a laugh as she wiped away her tears. “Sorry, I’m a bit emotional today. I thought we lost them in the move, where were they?”

“Tucked right at the bottom of the pile, they’re a bit crumpled,” Jack commented, poking the crumpled end of  _Starry Night._  But Genevieve was having none of his criticism, still shaking her head at the paper.

“Oh they’re perfect,” She assured him.

Above their bed, they pinned their poster of Starry Night as the finishing touch to their bedroom. In the would-be nursery, Sunflowers was tacked over the spot the pair felt a crib might one day reside.

At the success of their home reaching completion, Genevieve kissed Jack softly, deeply, her arms propped around his shoulders so that she could play with his hair until it was sticking up on all ends and as fluffy as can be, careful not to catch her ring in it. Her head still swam with giddiness everytime she felt his body pressed against hers,

“I’m never going to tire of kissing you,”

“Even when I’m all gross and smelly?”

“I’m trying to be romantic here, Ginny!”

“So charming! And on my birthday too? No wonder I married you!” Genevieve realised that they had become “that” couple, the one that repulsively reminded everyone that they were a perfectly happy married couple, but she did not care at all. “Well, since I’m so gross and smelly, d’you fancy a bath?”

“I fancy a bath, do you fancy a bath?”

“You know what? I  _do_  fancy a bath!”

Half an hour later and Genevieve washed the flannel up and down her arms. Bubbles piled on top of one another between where she and Jack sat. The fancy to stretch her legs out above the water led her to placing the flannel down and began to turn around. The task’s difficulty could not be understated, especially since she stayed sat in the water with self consciousness keeping her covered.

Jack was at the tap end, because he loved Genevieve and it was her birthday so she shouldn’t have to sit there, but he didn’t see this as a disadvantage. What he did see was Genevieve’s skin moulded into a lumpy scar on her shoulder, the jagged scratches that almost looked like a holly leaf on her thick thigh, the fine dark hairs slicked against her skin with the water, the spots and acne bunched together across her chest and back as she spun around to lean into him. He saw her body’s markings, all over in a mapped topography of beauty, he embraced them with her as she embraced him, her finger delicately tracing up and down his forearms resting on her tummy.

“Have you ever thought about getting tattoos? I know some of your RAF mates have shed loads.”

“Not a fan of needles,” Jack winced, “Plus I saw a lot of them get theirs done drunk and regret it as soon as they woke up. But you never know, might change my mind. Why d’you ask?” Grinning, he twisted one arm to display the bare pale skin, water sliding off back into the tub, “Think I’d look good with one?”

“I think you’d look good with many,” “Just not on the face.”

“Never. What about you? I’ve discovered your entire being and no tattoos?”

“I never properly considered it. I don’t like needles either.”

She only asked because Jack’s soft skin was so inviting; she couldn’t help but kiss his hands, clasping them in her own and watching the water run off him. Her head lolled back, Genevieve felt it best to scatter some more on his jaw and his beauty marks. She felt him shiver beneath her lips and regretted her position slightly since her lips could not reach his collarbones.

“I’m meant to be loving you, birthday girl,” Jack mumbled and Genevieve saw that he was blushing again.

“But I love loving you,” She stuck out her bottom lip before kissing his jaw again.

Jack didn’t speak. Instead he dabbed a blob of bubbles onto her cheeks and smiled, his eyes ever so slightly cross eyed as he looked down his nose. Scowling fiercely, Genevieve ignored how cute he was being. Then she realised she wasn’t too intimidating with bubbles on her face and she broke. Giggling away, she wiped away the bubbles and splattered them against Jack’s forehead.

“You can love me when we’re out of the bath.”

Which Jack took very literally. He watched Genevieve step out of the bath first then followed; as soon as his feet hit the damp mat, he kissed Genevieve’s nose. Between towelling off and donning pyjamas, they exchanged around fifteen more kisses dotting various parts of the face. Jack always went a little pink whenever Genevieve surprised him with a kiss, which made him look beautiful.

Not that there were times when she thought he wasn’t. She only saw him as beautiful, most of all now as he was dancing about the kitchen, still figuring out where everything was and went between checking on the griddled cheese on toast – a throwback to their reunion almost a year ago. The wireless played in the background. He swept Genevieve into a dance, both in bathrobes, and yes she did enjoy it. Laughing uproariously into his bathrobe as she rested her head into his chest, a slow dance copied their first so that her leg wouldn’t hurt. Suddenly the prospect of cheese on toast didn’t appeal to Genevieve. In fact it made her rather nauseous, which naturally she pinned on the spinning about before.

Excusing herself, she went and took a seat in the sitting room to think over what else she could do with the remaining four hours of her birthday. There was something else that she wanted. Later, it began tickling her nose with its usual sting but somehow now it was appealing to her. When she realised what it was, she wanted to slap herself: for missing the obvious and for wanting what she had always thought was disgusting.

Unsure of what else to do, Genevieve simply came out with it.

“Jack? I think I’m pregnant.”

There was a clatter of a teaspoon against the counter, then the radio switched off, and what followed were slow footsteps into Genevieve’s line of sight. Jack looked very concerned, his expression almost aggressive as he stared at her. Comically though he was holding his mug of peppermint tea and hers of “normal” tea.

“What?” He asked, his voice monotonous.

Genevieve swallowed and repeated herself, “I think I’m pregnant.”

“Why’d you say that?” Jack was speaking even slower than before.

“I’m late, I’m extra moody, I feel sick over cheese on toast and pie, both I love, and instead I’m craving your shit tea,” She listed, her fingers twitched as she did so.

A beat of silence and then Jack’s expression broke into a growing smile that took over his entire face. He slid onto their new couch beside her, placing the mugs down, and he took her hands. His eyes darted between her face and her tummy.

“Do you really think so?” He whispered.

Nodding, Genevieve said, “I do think so. But I also think we should book a doctor’s appointment.”

Jack enthusiastically copied her nodding and squeezed her hands tighter, “If it is a baby, are you ready to give up your job at the school? I know you were gonna go back-”

“Yes, get me out of that hellhole!” Genevieve snatched her hand from him and threw them in the air to praise the Lord, then she dragged them back to Earth with the realisation: “Wait, no, the mortgage.”

“I can work more hours” was suggested simultaneously to “I could not tell the school for a while to get some overtime”. Then followed the looks of disapproval from them both and afterwards the return of hope for neither wanted to linger on the logistics of a hypothetical pregnancy until they knew that it was no longer hypothetical.

Jack wriggled in his seat before going to check on the cheese. Since it was a meal for one now, he cooked up something else at Genevieve’s request: Yorkshire pudding. Leftovers were made for the following day, since rationing still inflicted upon the country.

Genevieve stayed in the sitting room to mull over the possibilities of a pregnancy. It was what they both wanted obviously but right after the wedding? That was the norm but should it be their norm? Progress had been made but she worried that perhaps she wasn’t quite well enough to be a mother and Jack a father. Waiting was an option but impatience and realism led her to the conclusion that she would always be waiting for a better time if that was her logic.

It was as Genevieve poured gravy over her birthday pudding that Jack voiced his thoughts and it triggered her to realise that she agreed with him, without a doubt:

“God, I hope you’re right.”

 


	36. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A doctor’s appointment later and it’s confirmed: the Collins are expecting a new member of the family. Genevieve is excited but her hormones have been telling her otherwise.

Jack awoke to a clatter and a scuffling from downstairs. His arm patted the space beside him and discovered it was empty. While his bed was warmly enticing, his curiosity and desire to see his wife safe and sound overruled and he grappled with the sheets to free himself. Feet stepping into slippers, arms tugging on a robe and knotting it in place, Jack trudged out of the room, down the steps, to investigate the noises.

From the entrance of the kitchen, he spied Genevieve by the fridge. She too was wearing her robe over her pyjamas. One arm was cradling a bowl and the other was a blur as she stuffed something into her mouth with gusto. With a sigh, Jack stepped into the kitchen.

“Love, why are you up?”

Genevieve looked up without alarm at her husband and said, “I got hungry.” Then she licked the back of the spoon, “I forgot how much I loved this pudding.”

“Ginny, it’s half three,” Jack rubbed one eye with a sleeve-covered hand.

Shrugging, she spoke around the spoon, “You can go back to bed. I’m not stopping you.”

Sighing again, Jack stepped forwards, his slippers slapping against the tiles, “Come on, you can eat your trifle in the morning.”

“It is the morning though.” Genevieve ate another spoonful as he touched the arm that coddled the bowl of trifle. Seeing Jack’s exhausted expression, she put reluctantly back her food in the fridge. A muttered thanks and a kiss on her temple guided her back upstairs to bed where she suddenly felt the full effect of being awake at three in the AM.

“Baby’s a hungry lil’ bad word, giving me cravings at this time of night,” She rubbed her hand over the slight bump as she scolded it. Adoringly, Jack placed his hand atop hers and squeezed before he helped her up the stairs.

“She’s gonna be a big girl,” He said with pride.

Genevieve frowned with confusion, “She?”

“Yeah, I bet Farrier that it’s gonna be a girl.”

“… What did you bet?”

Opening the bedroom door, Jack went a little red as he felt the weight of his words, “We kinda have to name our baby after him if it’s a boy.”

“Jack!”

“It’s not the end of the world! Fifty-fifty chance!”

It took a while for Genevieve to get comfortable in the bed again, wriggling under the covers and flipping the pillow to cool her neck. Then she made her commentary on her husband’s life choices, “I guess Edward isn’t the worst name ever.”

Jack shifted onto his side, facing her as her eyes drooped shut. He leant in and kissed her softly before whispering, “Happy one year.”

A little giddy on sleep deprivation, Genevieve joyfully remembered their reunion in her old flat, the scrubbed clean countertop he lifted her onto, the whisk she’d forgotten to pick up off the floor until the morning after, the bed so they had wrapped themselves in each other’s arms to fit onto it.

She teased in the tone of a Southern Belle, “Oh Jack, kiss me like you did when we were reunited!”

“In a few hours, maybe,” He raised his brows without opening his eyes. Not content with this, Genevieve kissed him again. Luckily Jack was all for going back on his word. His hand lazily pushed upward to touch her cheek then sliding onto her tummy to graze the skin with his knuckles. Humming, Genevieve tried not to flinch away from his ticklish touch until she was satisfied with her bedtime kiss, pushing Jack onto his back so she could lean over him. They shared a giggle, though they did not break the kiss, and they wouldn’t fall asleep for another ten minutes, ending with a cuddle built around Genevieve’s comfort.

 

* * *

 

Their anniversary blended with falling leaves and bad weather. Not that the couple minded. Genevieve slept through half of it while Jack went to work. When he returned to an indoor picnic by the fire, pillows and warmth surrounding them, they spent their evening loving on each other with kisses, sandwiches, and an early night.

The late night cravings only increased but it meant that Genevieve could make a dent in decorating the nursery. However Christmas arrived sooner than anticipated and before they knew it, Genevieve and Jack were staying over Christmas Eve at the Hastings’ farm, sleeping in Genevieve’s old room which Jack was enthralled to see. Like a child in a sweet shop, he spun around in the box room and fell onto the bed. Then he leapt up again and explored the chest of toys, the boxes under the bed, the wardrobe. The latter was where he found the best part of the visit: Genevieve’s old clothes.

“Look at your little dresses!” He squeaked, holding up one she wore as a six year old, “And these dungarees! Our baby could borrow them!” Genevieve watched from her seat on the bed, endeared by this little spectacle. Especially when he found her baby shoes, paired off in a dusty box.

Starting to look a little more convex, Genevieve found herself wanting to sit or sleep more than usual. Her leg was not straining as much as it had done but it still caused a tad more than her average baseline of pain. Her cane was annoyingly becoming a necessity for her movement. At least it gave her an excuse at least to get out of being fawned over by her sister.

“You’re positively glowing!” Lilly had said upon greeting Genevieve, to which she had responded: “no, that’s just sweat and acne”.

Bluntness aside, Genevieve spent a majority of her time on the sofa with James on the floor in front of her, showing off all his presents to her. Aside from when they were alone, Jack was rather quiet during their stay. His voice’s volume dropped drastically as soon as they stepped out of the bedroom, even more so when he played with James. Very carefully did he phrase his words, as if he were being stalked by Genevieve’s parents for the duration of his visit. The only time he really made an appearance was when the presents were being unwrapped. A majority of them were baby clothes; he elatedly played with the tiny socks and measured the clothes over the bump while James giggled hysterically in the background.

“Baby’s got a bit more growing to go. Keep ‘em cooking, love.”

“At least there’s a baby in here. What’s your excuse?” 

“Apple pie.”

They left just as James was heard asking Lilly where the baby came from. A hasty escape to the crazy Collins’ house was something Genevieve was grateful for. The only thing she wasn’t prepared for was Cora in the throngs of her Christmas organising frenzy. Silence took over the car but she was fine with this break as was Jack. It gave him ample opportunity to hold his wife’s hand without a watchful parent in the corner. As if a hand holding would do anything more than what they had already done. She was already pregnant for Christ’s sake.

Switching off the engine, Jack looked at her. His eyes strayed back to the bump then her lower lip, parted from the top as she bit the inside of her mouth, a nervous habit. He leant over, kissed her cheek, drew away with a red face after admitting his guilty pleasure, “You look so adorable when you worry, really are glowing.”

Genevieve’s eyes squinted at him, but her smile betrayed her as she told him, “Shut up.”

Her slow exit from the car, and Jack’s subsequent assistance in helping her out, gave the opportunity to kiss him in return. It only lasted a moment for Cora flung open the front door and sprang upon the couple with a bear hug. How she managed to wrap her arms around them both, neither knew, but the hug was pleasant enough before being swept into the house for another dinner, after Jack ferried in presents of course.

Jack’s father was enamoured with the presents Genevieve had already received. His thick hands carefully pawed over the outfits with the twinkle of a grandfather-to-be in his eye. He only stopped staring at it when he went to look over the family photo album, his eyes misty with mirth. Genevieve happily revisited the album, in tears well before it was revealed that a photo of herself, Jack, Ethel, Toby, and Karen playing cricket that October gone was pasted on the latest page. It took a minute for her to calm herself enough to say “thank you” coherently and she accepted her own bowl of pudding graciously – and with more tears. It was an understatement to say the still implemented rationing had been tough on them all so to receive an entire bowl of pudding to oneself was a godsend.

Farrier was about for a couple of hours. His puppy Westley came too, his brown fur wiggling between all these new people then sticking his butt down beside Genevieve. Obliging to his silent request, she scratched the German Shepherd between the ears. With a disgusting jumper on, Farrier sat next to Genevieve as she cuddled into the dozing Jack’s arm, bowl in her lap.

“Jack told you ‘bout the bet then?” He cleared his throat.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to follow through if it is a boy.”

“What happens if they’re a girl, what are the stakes?” Genevieve asked.

“Lifetime of babysitting,” Jack piped up from under the paper crown that acted as a sleeping mask.

“I mean we’ll probably rope you into it anyway, so don’t worry about it,” Genevieve shrugged and, when Farrier made to protest, she leant against his arm instead with fluttering eyelashes. He silenced himself, taking a sip of his mulled wine, then allowed himself to be taken in too by the tiny socks from Ethel.

Once that bowl full was in her belly, Genevieve ate some leftovers then immediately fell asleep. As bedtime approached, Jack found her, snoring a little, on his old bed. His tattered teddy snuggled in the crook of her arm, her new pyjamas that Jack had gifted her that morning just loose enough on her figure to be comfortable for her and the baby. He teetered on the edge of the bed and embraced his wife, falling into slumber almost as quickly as she had done.

 

* * *

 

Winter rolled into spring without severe illness. Genevieve’s tummy ballooned up between doctor’s appointments. Her penultimate meeting was a little tense since she had been experiencing a lot of pain on the underside of her belly. The entire trek from the car to the waiting room then to the office, Jack held her hand and whispered comforting words to ground her. Tummy measured, listened to, temperature taken, nothing came from the doctor.

“Is the baby ok?” She finally asked. Her voice was so soft that the doctor didn’t register it. Jack repeated it, still holding her hand with his chin lifted up from beside hers.

“Heartbeat is steady, growth is fine,” The doctor washed his hands, “Your baby is perfectly healthy.”

When he didn’t say anything else, Genevieve prompted him, “And the pain?”

“Normal.”

Of course, Genevieve pushed for more than that and a deeper explanation of the pain, Jack doing the same, but there was nothing (apparently) that the doctor could do. The appointment closed without providing the security they were hoping for.

The car ride home, Genevieve played with a soft blanket she’d found in a charity shop on the way back. Its corners were frayed but it was so comforting with its gentle touch.

In meantime, Jack was brainstorming what else to do with the day. It was only five. There was time to do something else, something to take their minds off things. Nothing spectacular, something free, an activity that wouldn’t cause Genevieve too much pain, there weren’t many options for them. Then the perfect idea sprung into his mind as he pulled on the car’s brake

“Do you wanna go out?”

“Yeah, please.”

A pleasant evening in the back garden of the Collins’ household, Genevieve was lying on her back on a picnic blanket, reading aloud “The Great Gatsby” to Jack who was curled up at her side. Dresses were no longer an option for Genevieve so she opted for wider trousers. The lower section of her shirt buttons and her trousers were undone, exposed the swollen stomach for Jack to rub the new blanket across, tracing the stretch marks. In turn, she lightly scratched her nails back and forth across the back of his head with idleness. His hair was a little too long, a haircut overdue. Her other hand being occupied with the novel; her cane lay in the grass above her head, out of sight and mind.

“‘There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars’… Love, that tickles.”

Looking down at her swollen belly, Jack stopped moving the corner of the blanket, resting it there on her skin instead, “Sorry, Ginny.” He smiled innocently.

Genevieve smiled back knowingly before continuing: “‘At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor−boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends his Rolls’ – ah!”

She gasped, her book dropping beside her. Jack shot up, his hand still cupping his belly. They exchanged a look of surprise.

“You felt that?” Jack whispered. On cue, a small kick came from underneath her skin, delivered right to Jack’s right palm, and he squealed, “The baby!”

Pressing his lips against the skin, he spoke excitedly to the bump, “Hey baby, it’s me, your da! Can you hear me?” Another kick made Genevieve groan then giggle.

“Hey, sweetie,” Jack rested his chin there so the baby could feel as well as hear him talk, “You’re kicking again, it’s been a while! Don’t worry, you’ll be out soon. Just another couple o’ months and I’ll be able to hold you. You’re gonna love it and you’re gonna love your ma.”

Between trying not to cry at Jack’s baby voice and staring pointedly at her stomach, Genevieve said,  “Baby, I love you too. But can you let me keep reading to your da?”The baby seemed to understand and stopped kicking her so she sallied forth: “Thank you, baby. ‘On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight’ – ow… ‘while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains.’ Oh!”

“Our baby’s gonna be a boxer,” Jack cooed, rolling another kiss onto the skin to soothe the kicking from the outside.

“Can she practise when she’s out of me?” Genevieve winced, “I love her but it’s rather difficult to concentrate.”

“So you DO think it’s a girl?”

 She scowled in jest at her husband before continuing with her read-through:

“‘And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing−brushes and hammers  and garden−shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York every Monday…’ God, I really want some orange juice.”

The baby kicked again.

“She agrees. She needs her strength.” Genevieve gave into Jack’s daughter conspiracy. He helped her to stand, and bundled up the rug while Genevieve buttoned up her trousers and made her way back to the house. Once the rug was packed away, Jack helped her upstairs.

Genevieve swerved left with new energy (on slow release) to get to the nursery. It looked mildly sparse. Unfortunately, decorating was placed on hold due to Genevieve’s lack of employment. Funds instead went to the mortgage that was almost crippling. Handmade bedding, old toys and second hand furniture were what they made do with and Genevieve regularly assured Jack that it all added to the rural theme of their home.

“Plus, the baby won’t know about that kind of thing for six months at least,” was her final attempt at reassurance - for herself as well as Jack. If she could, she would give the world to her baby. But the world was shite and the baby deserved more.

Looking about the room with tired looking wallpaper, Genevieve searched for where to put the blanket. Finally she hobbled over to the crib and tucked it in, smoothing out a ripple satisfied. Jack kissed her cheek, hugging her carefully from behind with his hands finding the baby bump again like a key to a lock.

Back into their bedroom, Jack waited patiently for Genevieve to get changed. Today seemed like a good day, in his opinion at least, but he wanted to make sure in case -

“Jack? Would you mind?”

“Of course,” and he was already down on one knee, untying one of her shoe’s laces. Eased each one off, he peeled off her socks too while Genevieve changed her top half, freeing her skin with unrestrained relief. Her sighs were abruptly cut off with a groan. Her shirt was clutched to her chest and her back curved.

“It’s fine,” She took caution as she stood up and pulled on her nightgown, stretching it over her belly, “Just hurts.”

Watching as she stepped out of her trousers, Jack left her clothes on the chair tucked in the corner. It took him extensively less effort and pain to change into his pyjamas. With his free time, he sat next to Genevieve, waiting for her to look at him before he spoke.

“I’m so proud of you.” 

It was a triggering sentence. Genevieve’s eyes instantly grew teary. A hand began cradling her head, and Jack squeezed her shoulder, kissing her forehead before looking down at the bump, “And we can’t wait to meet you, baby.”

“Thanks… Kinda want that orange juice now please.”

Letting loose a high-pitched giggle, Jack nodded, “Grab you some now.”

On the way down, he decided to brew himself some tea. He could always trade with Genevieve if she changed her mind and wanted his drink instead. As the water boiled, he opened the can, poured it out in full. Then he sped through making his own beverage for he didn’t want to keep his wife waiting.

Genevieve was passed out with the book on her tummy, the spine of the paperback novel bent. Her tags – his old ones – were on the bedside table, her wedding ring also on the link for it wouldn’t fit on her finger anymore. Taking a sip from his tea, Jack placed her glass adjacent to her tags. Then he removed the book from her tummy to let it join the others on the bedside table. He was pleased that she had gotten to sleep so quickly; he prayed that he would be able to do the same.

Not that slumber ever lasted long these days. Waking up to a heat she was not comfortable with, Genevieve winced and turned her head to face the window. One eye barely cracked open. It was dark so she had the excuse to not get up just yet. With a long exhale, she closed her eyes properly and tried to force herself into sleep so she wouldn’t spiral into self doubt again or wake up Jack.

“Hey, baby.”

Damn, caught out already. She sighed again. Oh well, maybe it was time to get up. But just as she went to reply to this term of endearment, she heard Jack speak again.

“It’s ok, just your da here.”

Oh.

“Catching up. You were giving your ma some grief today. I promise I’ll get your aunts and uncle to give you lessons on self-defence lessons if you tone it down. Your ma deserves a rest.”

He shifted beside her and soon Jack had his cheek flattened against the skin, “You know, I reckon you’re gonna like going to the park. It’s where I took your ma for our first date. I hadn’t seen her in five years but she was more beautiful than ever. We were cloud-gazing and making out in the rain – I’m getting this in now because you can’t protest about it – and another time we went on the swings. You’ll like the swings too. Sure, you’ll have to grow a bit of course before you can use them on your own but you can sit in my lap. I’ll be gentle with the swinging and then when you’re older I can push you. You’re gonna have so much fun, I promise.”

Such an image stuck in Genevieve’s head, the baby without any defined features but she could hear laughter from them both and it made her sniff sharply to match the sting in her eyes.

Pressing a kiss down, Jack moved onto another topic, “Your ma wants to call you Daisy, after the character in the book she was reading us. But if you ask me, Daisy is a bit of an arse leading Gatsby on when Nick’s a perfectly good partner for him _and_ she forgets she’s got a baby too… And honestly Daisy’s a name you give to a cow, not a bonny babe.”

Genevieve snorted loudly at that. He thought he was hilarious, he did.

“Eavesdropping, Ginny?”

Then she remembered she was meant to be asleep.

She cracked open an eye and landed her gaze on Jack, smiling in the dark. “Now don’t pretend you don’t talk to her too. I heard you and her the other night in the bathroom.”

Flushing at the memory of her brushing her teeth and talking about other potential names to the bump’s reflection, Genevieve made effort to face him better and the tears that had brewed in her eyes spilled down her temples into the pillow she was lying on.

“Ginny, why are you crying?” Jack asked, even though he knew why. Mood swings, with the last experience being when Genevieve became hysterical over the wallpaper of the nursery, yelled at Jack for suggesting something else, and then refused to let him accept her multiple apologies.

Genevieve took a shuddering breath in then spoke, “You’re gonna upstage me, be such a good dad.” And while this started off as a joke, it soon faded into seriousness as she asked Jack, “Am I gonna be a good mum?” Before he could reply, she added, “It keeps me up at night. Always thinking about it.” Jack was horrified to think that his wife was kept awake, plagued with trite doubts, when he was so certain of her talents.

“No, no, you’re gonna be the most amazing mum,” He wriggled up to her side.

Genevieve sniffled, wiping her nose in the duvet and pushing it away in disgust, “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“How dare you? I’m completely unbiased.” The speed and monotonous horror with which Jack defended himself set Genevieve off in half sobs half snorts. She smothered them in the snotty blankets, more tears slipping out. Jack shuffled closer still, his nose a few inches from Genevieve’s shoulder, “Will you let me hold you again?”

“No, it’s too hot.”

“Ok.” Only rubbing his thumb on her belly now, Jack dropped his voice to a whisper so that the baby couldn’t hear their parent chat, “You know I worry that I don’t provide for you, I just feel a bit helpless, here while you’re carrying our baby. But you always tell me otherwise, and I trust your judgement.”

Genevieve sniffled, ready to defend him from his doubts, “You aren’t helpless. You gave me a back rub the other day. You shared your tea with me a lot.”

“Exactly, and you trust my judgement too?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust me when I say you’re gonna be alright.” Jack kissed her cheek, his lips smudging away the last tear that fell. “We’re going to be alright. And Baby agrees,” he added as another kick thumped against her tummy and his thumb.

“Baby doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Genevieve grumbled, tapping the bump as if she was scolding the child.

“Sure she does,” Jack protested gently, peering down at the bump with a smile that he could just contain behind his lips, “She’s gonna be a superhero like her Ma.”

Ever the voice of reason, he advised that they should get another few hours in. He lightly patted the baby bump then rolled over and fell asleep on the instant. During that time, Genevieve had changed her mind about the cuddling but, so that she wouldn’t disturb Jack, she focused on getting off to sleep. That way, tomorrow they could cuddle as much as they liked.


	37. Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fair few things have gone right for Genevieve: her cricket skills, her marriage, her house, her recovery, her apple pie making. It seems that those are all she is going to have go right in this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning at the end of the chapter

The final doctor’s appointment went like every other one: confirmation that she was fine and so was the baby, a disregard for her pain, a reminder of the due date. And the due date was a few weeks later, on a Saturday which Jack was glad about.

Wednesday morning, Genevieve had a lie in. They were had become regular since she did not enjoy moving with the bump restricting her every movement. Jack was long gone already, at work now, no doubt. Curtains, he had left them ever so slightly open to tempt her out of bed (to close them). It worked a little more than she would admit, but at least she was awake. “Posture be damned” is what Genevieve thought as she sank into the covers that smelt a little sweaty. Two big toes poked out the blanket’s end, just in view over the bump. It was the most comfortable she’d been for the entire week.

So, of course, phantom contractions from yesterday followed her through sleep onto this damn morning.

Forcing her way up, Genevieve didn’t bother making the bed. Instead, her efforts went to going downstairs with the banister as her assistant. Her second favourite place (after her bed) greeted her at the bottom of the stairs with cold tiled flooring and a fridge half full of leftovers. Genevieve surveyed the contents before she collected some cold meat pie, leaving a slice behind along a side of heavy restraint. Then she also took her helping of cold roast potatoes, a few sticks of Cora’s shortbread, and a mug of peppermint tea to the table for feasting. 

“You full yet, baby?” She asked aloud with the last morsel down her throat. Her hand rubbed circles over the belly to try and feel for a reply. “It’s alright, I’m not really awake either. Take your time talking.”

And now what to do? Genevieve suffered from fits of boredom more so now than ever. Yesterday she had called her sister for an hour then Cora for two. The day before she had reread three books that she had already skimmed twice the previous week. Three days ago, she couldn’t even remember what meaningless task she had carried out while Jack was having an afternoon nap. 

Today, rearranging the trinkets and toys in the nursery was on her agenda. Half an hour was spent going up the stairs and another half an hour went on debating over how to arrange the three soft toys that the family had to offer the unborn child. The primary concern of Genevieve’s was the placement of the teddy bear with the tartan bow around its neck. It had been swapped between the left side and the centre with Genevieve’s eye on it the entire time. 

“What do you think?” She asked the belly, her hand over it to feel the kick in response. They had to be awake by now. She waited. She waited for several minutes. She waited for the baby to kick for the first time in a week. 

A cramp twisted inside her. It shocked up to kneel up, hands grasping at the bars of the cot. Genevieve breathed deeply through it. Her knuckles were white with effort as she grasped at the wooden bars and pulled her forehead to rest against them too. 

She didn’t realise she was crying until the cramp subsided.

“Shhhh, it’s OK, we’re OK,” She whispered to herself, rubbing at her right eye.

Jack, she wanted Jack and all his ignorance towards the subject of her baby’s silence. But he was at work. She would have to bring him to her.

In their shared wardrobe, Jack had the left side. Shirts of similar colours hung in crisply ironed formation and then followed his trousers. Standing before it, doors flung open, Genevieve unhooked one of his shirts, embraced it against her with the cuffs of each sleeve in their respective hands. Her body swayed without intention, her eyes closed as she smelled the left shoulder. A distinct sharp smell, his aftershave, her hands slipped on the shirt without bothering to button it over the belly.

One old blanket was tied around her hips, below the belly. Since there was no pockets, her tin was pressed against her hip. Its chilled bite was not the worst thing she had felt. The comfort from that morning was a distant memory.

Struggling downstairs, she remembered that none of her shoes were comfortable enough to wear out. Only one hand on the banister and always one foot on the floor guided her to the ground floor. She grabbed the other slice of the meat pie, wrapped up in brown paper, for her trek.

Jack’s dress shoes shone in the corner of her eyes. They were daintily aligned by the back door and shining in polished decency. A fair few sizes bigger than her feet, Genevieve stepped into them but did not lace them.

Into the back garden and she was greeted with a gust of wind. Little bunches of cosmos grew by the walls. Leaning over, Genevieve’s hand graced over the tops of the flowers then picked one free. She took it with her into the centre of the garden where she got to her knees then lowered herself onto her back. The sky overhead was white with overcast clouds, almost blinding her half-closed eyes. Grass rippled at her sides. Her picked flower bounced in the wind, petals tickling her bare belly. Genevieve left it to lie there. Then she took a bite from the pie before prying open the tin and reading one of the letters aloud to her bump. 

It would be a lie to say that this was the first time the bump had been read the story of how their parents came to be together. It would be another lie to say that Genevieve thought everything was fine. Her hands were the only ones investigating that thought, feeling beneath her makeshift skirts. When they found their evidence, they stilled and Genevieve’s voice faltered. Slotting the letter back into its tin and clipping it shut, she took a deep breath for courage. Her hand reappeared from beneath her blanket. The skin stained with fresh blood. A gust of wind displaced the flower from her belly. Genevieve did not attempt to retrieve it, her hands groping at her bloodied skirts. Instead her head lolled to the side and looked at the house. It blurred into blobs of colour as tears spilled down her face. Cramps came and went, arriving earlier each time, but Genevieve stayed in the garden. She didn’t even realise the day was almost over until she heard him.

“Ginny?”

He was back yet she made no effort to go to him.

“Ginny, my darling?”

The kitchen light snapped on and she found his silhouette moving about the space. Then more light was thrown into the garden with Jack stood at the door

“What are you doing out here?”

Back from work and he was all ready to hold the belly and feel the little kicks, to talk to his baby. While she wasn’t looking at him directly, Genevieve could feel the smile on his face and the joy in his voice. And she felt it drop from him as he drew closer.

“Oh God.”

“Something’s wrong,” She whispered.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Jack fidgeting on his feet, “Uh, right, come on, Ginny, let’s get you inside.” 

She felt him take her hands despite the blood, his own sliding behind to lift her up onto her feet, guiding her back indoors. It wasn’t until she was indoors that she realised she was shaking a little. At the foot of the stairs she was placed.

“Just stay here, give me one sec.”

Jack leapt into action, grabbing the phone and punching the midwife’s number in. He stammered out the situation into the receiver. Once he had confirmation she was on the way, he helped Genevieve out of his shoes and up the stairs stairs. Only a few steps at a time could she walk before weakly rocking forward with a gasp, her hand falling to hold the stairs, and they would stop.

“It’s not gonna be alright,” She said quietly, “Something’s wrong with them.”

“Well, we don’t know what’s wrong, we won’t until the midwife gets here.”

When she was ready, Genevieve resumed her ascent for the last time that day. It was with a sigh of relief that she fell onto the bed. Still talking away, Jack ran to the bathroom. A warm flannel and towel were prepared; en route back to his wife, he found clean underwear for her. His legs squatted him before Genevieve, whose teary stare was fixed on her knees.

Carefully, he removed her clothes from her lower half and cleaned up the blood, both fresh and dry on her thighs. It was a horror Jack had imagined before, in his darkest hours for nearly five years. Contexts had changed of course; Genevieve was no longer in a war-zone. Didn’t make it any less terrifying. He filled the space instead with chatting to the bump about how he couldn’t wait to meet them.

“They’re not there are they?” Genevieve whispered and it startled Jack. Swallowing hard, he looked up with a dizzy mind at his wife. She was looking through him, even as he placed aside the flannel, kissed her cold knuckles, opened her hand to press against her belly, moved forward to catch her eye.

“No, she’s there. Look, there. There’s our baby, there she is. Our little girl.”

Genevieve shook her head, “They haven’t kicked in days.”

“We won’t know what’s wrong until the midwife gets here,” Jack repeated, a little weaker this time.

He carried on soaking her skin and wiping it clean. They were both quiet for some time, even as he began patting her skin dry, his hand thumbing across each patch of skin when it was clean. Upon realising that the bed clothes were only half in place, he tried to joke that the bed matched Genevieve. But she flinched and leaned over her head, resting it atop Jack’s while she breathed through a contraction – one that she knew now was potentially not phantom. Midway through the cramping, Jack heard the faint sound of knocking but remained still and holding Genevieve until she, in her own time, moved off him.

“You’re gonna be OK. I’ll be right back.”

His feet sprinted from the room, skipping over stairs on the way down with an acceleration that landed him right into the front door. Two midwives were outside, one still parking her bike against the wall. Quick introductions were made, Sister Helena and her assistant Sister Agnes, before everyone rushed back upstairs.

“Hello, Mrs Collins,” the briskest of greetings before getting down to business yet that firmness in Sister Helena’s voice was reassuring to the couple. Someone who knew what they were doing was in the room with them.

“Mr Collins, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside.”

Not exactly eager to leave the room, Jack held Genevieve’s cheek and her gaze for a moment, then he kissed the left corner of her mouth. His forehead touched hers as she bent into his kiss in search of comfort. A whine followed Jack out of the room, her attempt to make him stay. It shifted into a whimper when the midwives began to examine her. The click of metal tools and snapping of gloves paired with the prodding and poking, it meant the wrong was real. 

When they finally moved away, Genevieve waited to hear the news. But nothing. Should she prompt? She had a right, surely. But as she spoke, she flinched away from every word.

“What’s wrong with my baby?”

“You have placenta praevia, nothing to worry about,” Helena said with a calmly collected voice, “Nothing wrong with the baby.”

A wall of nausea smacked Genevieve in the head, leaving her with a stricken expression. But Helena was already leaving the room, Agnes organising her bag’s contents on the floor. 

“I gave up on her,” Genevieve whispered to herself. She looked down at the bump, her hand over it still searching for the kick. And though she couldn’t feel anything, it felt different to how it had been an hour ago. There was nothing that could stop her from groaning into the sheets, muffling the noise of regret. Agnes heard and rushed to her side but she only caught the tail end of her sentence, spoken hushed to her belly:

“I was wrong, and I gave up on you. I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again.”

 

* * *

 

While she was begging for forgiveness from her unborn daughter - she was sure her child would be a girl - Jack was pacing and wringing his hands in the hallway. Finally, Helena emerged, looking a little hot as she closed the door.

Laying out as much information as she could to the distressed Jack, she advised that the baby would not be coming out for a while, so he should go get himself a drink. Jack was ushered out of his home, his coat and wallet pressed into his chest as the front door was shut. In a daze he pulled on his coat and tried to think of an alternative. It was somewhere between closing the gate and getting into the car that Jack realised Farrier was meant to be on a date tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, just outside his front door, Farrier found Jack waiting for him with a paler face than usual. 

Farrier was always prepared for a drink and now more than ever. Upon discovering the news, he cancelled his date and took Jack to the Red Lion. Signalling the bar tender as he helped Collins stumble over to the bar and slide into a stool, Farrier ordered them both a stiff drink which was placed in front of them seconds later.

“Just hoping it’s a girl, for your sake. You don’t want your kid stuck with my name forever,” He joked, taking a sip from his drink.

Collins stared at his drink, the thick amber swirls curling about the ice cubes. Then he knocked it back in three swallows, coughing on the last one.

“You alright, mate?” Farrier slapped Jack on the back until the coughing ceased. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” Jack spluttered.

Farrier moved in, wiggling his finger about his ear, “I can’t hear you, you’ll have to speak up.”

“What the fuck am I doing?” Jack shouted, catching the attention of a lot of the bar patrons and causing Farrier. He coughed again, still not over the whiskey, “My wife is giving birth right now and I’m having a fucking drink!” 

“Alright, alright, it’s alright, calm down,” Farrier forced him down into his stool. Jack didn’t even realise he was standing or that he had been addressing the entire pub - now silent at his announcement. Pouting like a child, he frowned with concentration as the bartender refilled his glass.

“Congrats, now keep it down,” He said gruffly before moving to a new customer. The hubbub returned but faded again as, grabbing his coat, Jack sprinted from the bar with stares following him. It took Farrier a while to react then he smiled with disbelief.

“Sure, I’ve got the tab.” 

He paid for the neglected whiskey as well as his own, a forlorn look lingering on the full glass, before he threw on his jacket and pushed through the pub doors. Only to collide with Collins who was frozen right outside on the pavement.

"I uh I don’t know what to do.” And he looked to Farrier for an answer.

“Well, do her family know?” 

“No.”

“So maybe you should tell them?”

“No, I don’t wanna worry them.”

“Tell them.”

Of course, Jack had to borrow change from Farrier to use the phone booth. He rehearsed a fair few times what he would say to the Hastings and the Collins clans before actually dialling their numbers. Farrier waited outside the booth, scuffing his heels against the ground until Jack emerged. 

It was then that Farrier suggested doing something to help Genevieve after the baby was born. Jack’s mind instantly leapt to “pudding”. If she’d still like it after the cravings and all. The food they were meant to spend on booze went towards canned fruit, a limited amount of cream, cornflower, with the last of Jack’s coupons (found at the very bottom of his coat pockets). Jack was frantic in his search about the place for everything, Farrier following behind and actually looking at what was in the shop for the food they wanted. Everything loaded into their arms and it was just as they left the shop that Jack mumbled:

“Uh, I don’t know how to make pudding. Ginny always did it.”

“You’re useless, you are,” Farrier pinched the bridge of his nose, “Right, come on then.”

And so they trekked back to Farrier’s to make that pudding, arms still laden with tins and paper bags. Westley greeted them sleepily, panting at their entrance and following them to the kitchen. Throughout the prep process, the puppy spent most of the time worming between Farrier’s legs, rubbing his head against his shins.

“Alright, you little trip hazard,” Farrier grumbled at his doting dog. But he was smiling as he spoke, and his eyes were bright with adoration. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he saw Farrier like this. It was beautiful. Jack felt his heart ache a little more: that his wife was in pain, an almost old flame was happy, and a new light in his life was on the way. So many conflicting events and emotions.

Then Farrier nudged him as a reminder that he was meant to keep mixing the custard. His stirring sped up followed by a haphazardly pouring into a bowl lined with the tinned fruit. It wasn’t perfect but it was something.

“Come on,” Farrier ruffled Westley’s ears then Jack’s hair with the same hand, “I’ll drive you back.”

The bowl jiggled in Jack’s lap, his hands acting guardians of it. He didn’t pay attention to much else during the journey, only looking away once the engine was switched off. His own home was a daunting structure now. Both men’s eyes lingered on the shadows behind drawn curtains - the bedroom.

“Do you want me to stay?” Farrier asked, his voice oddly quiet. 

Three seconds thought then Jack replied, “No, thank you. You’ve done so much for me, us already. We’ll be fine.”

“Well if you don’t name your kid after me, you can buy me a drink. Ring me when you find out.”

A slap on the back and Jack was out the car, waving Farrier off while he drove away. His arm cradled the bowl as he fumbled with his keys. The door clicked then swung open to reveal a quiet interior. It was disrupted by a scream from the floor above him. The pudding was launched with reckless abandon onto the kitchen table and Jack flew up the stairs to her side.

 

* * *

 

“You are doing wonderfully,” Sister Helena reassured. 

Nodding ascent, Agnes dabbed at Genevieve’s forehead in a pathetic attempt to bring comfort. In truth, she wasn’t doing wonderfully. In the hours that had passed, she had been asked if she would want to move to a hospital, informed that she would be moving to a hospital, changed into a nightgown for “more privacy” then told to stay in the bed because the hospital would be too far.

Genevieve had asked an hour ago “Helena, is my baby going to be OK?” yet it felt like years because the response to that was “we hope so”. The response one would get when someone has been invited over to a party they don’t want to go to. Her other question went unasked because she did not want to know the answer that would be no more certain than the other she had gotten, the answer to if she was going to live or not.

“Mr Collins, you can’t be here right now!” Agnes blocked the door. Genevieve strained to see her husband, but another stab of pain pinned her down. Her hands fisted the sheets, too deep in for their search for relief to reach for him.

Completely ignoring the midwife, Jack pushed past to get to Genevieve, “It’s alright, love, I’m here.” Her skin covered in slick sweat, her face red with effort, and he grabbed her hand.

She could only pant and hold onto Jack, her anchor. The midwife pressed a stethoscope onto her belly, moving the end around to find the heartbeat. She never settled her search, pulling away and placing the stethoscope back into her bag.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, his voice almost drowned out by Genevieve’s groaning.

“The baby’s heartbeat is slowing down much lower than we’d like,” The Midwife said briskly, “We were going to move her to a hospital due to the bleeding but, luckily, baby is almost ready to come out.” Jack’s heart flared with pain and he looked back to his wife. The stories of botched childbirth slipped into his mind, replacing his image of what his child could be.

“Jack!”

“I’m here, Ginny,” Jack pulled out his handkerchief and mopped away the sweat on her brow, still holding her hand, “You’re gonna be OK. You’re my girl, remember?”

“I’m scared,” She sobbed, clinging to his arm and panting panicked, “I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

Jack kept repeating these positive buzz phrases, unable to fathom any other forms of solace. He found himself getting rather sweaty as Agnes took Genevieve’s other side, holding her hand also. 

“OK, Genevieve, I’m going to need you to push now,” Helena said from the foot of the bed.

Thrice a minute for ten seconds each, and Genevieve could hardly stand it. It was the worst pain she’d ever felt. Endless, exhausting, but finally she had something to do. Three people telling her how well she was doing was both helpful and useless. It was all white noise until she heard:

“Nearly there! One more big one: push!”

Genevieve’s scream caught in her throat with gasps for air as she pushed one final time. She collapsed into the pillows with heavy breathing and pain slipping away as Helena pulled away from beneath her nightgown. But after hearing the snip of the umbilical cord, there was silence. With her back to the bed, the soundless baby in her arms, Helena walked over to the side cabinet. Weakly, Genevieve tried to sit up, tugging on Jack’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” She said hoarsely, “Why aren’t they crying? What’s wrong with my baby?”

Jack swallowed hard, gently easing Genevieve back into the bed as he watched the midwife who had her back to the pair. His stomach churned the whiskey with his bacon sarnie from lunch. His eyes started welling up as he realised what was happening. 

“Jack, what’s wrong with our baby? Agnes?” Genevieve’s voice became more frantic at her attempt to pull herself out of bed. But she was too tired, her body wouldn’t respond to the dire situation. It left her helpless in the bed and begging to know the inevitable bad news.

“Genevieve.” Jack’s words cracked as he dropped onto the bed next to her, his attempt at talking failed. He took his turn to tightly grip her hand. His heart was plummeting through his stomach, curdling in the acid and nerves, before hitting the floor. He was barely keeping it together, the tension dissolving his resolve while he held his wife. But Genevieve was inconsolable. She howled as Agnes moved over to her, pressed down on her belly gently without making eye contact, asking quietly for Genevieve to push again. Once that was over and done with, Agnes left the room but said nothing else.

“What’s wrong with our baby?” Genevieve said hoarsely before forcing out a distraught shout, “Helena, please!”

“Mrs Collins,” The midwife finally spoke, “You need to be quiet.”

“Why?”

“You need to conserve your energy. And, your baby, she’s sleeping,” The midwife turned around, wrapping a blanket into a bundle where a soft coughing was heard. The couple looked down at the blanket, their stricken faces frozen.

“She…” Genevieve breathed, slowly taking in the news.

“Sleeping?” Jack finished.

The midwife nodded, rubbing the back of the blankets, “I had to make sure she was going to make it first. But she’s perfectly fine, just having a nap.”

There was silence for a second. Then, releasing a cross between a laugh and a sigh, Jack pulled Genevieve into a tight hug which she weakly returned, crying into his shoulder with blessed relief. Her cries were muted in his shirt, something so simple so comforting.

“Would you like to hold her, Mrs Collins?” The midwife moved around the bed. A timid wave washed over Genevieve as Jack pulled away from her, still keeping a tentative hand on her back so she was steady. He looked at her for an answer.

However, the midwife was not waiting for an answer, waltzing over to the bedside, holding her out for Genevieve to take. Awkwardly, she took the swaddle of blankets. The weight in her arms was both light and heavy. The midwife left to give the couple some privacy, but they didn’t notice their exit. With burning nerves, Jack and Genevieve peered at his daughter for the first time.

Her damp red face was relaxed with a button nose, rosebud lips and eyelashes brushing her plump cheeks, fluttering every now and again as she slept. Her hands peeked out from the bundle, one slowly clenching and unclenching around the corner of the blanket. The miniscule details on her fingertips and nails were like works of art. Her chest slowly rose and fell with the sound of her gentle breathing.

“Hello baby,” Jack said, his voice thick as he watched Genevieve carefully cradling the small bundle. Leaning against Jack’s shoulder, Genevieve felt more tears silently slip down her face and saw her husband holding back his own.

“Hello, I’m your Da,” Jack whispered, “And this is your Ma. She’s the one you’ve been kicking… Gave us quite the scare, you did. But don’t worry. I’m gonna take such good care of you. I promise.”

Tears still flooding from her eyes, Genevieve traced the shell of her baby’s ear down to her cheek, “God, she’s perfect.”

“Of course, she is, you made her,” He helped Genevieve prop herself against the pillows.

“We made her,” She kept her gaze on her baby with a dopey smile fixed on her face, “Joint effort. The team.”

“We never settled on a name though.”

“I might be a bit too tired to make any decisions now.”

“Does that mean you’d say yes to anything?”

“No.”

“Your Ma’s too smart for me,” Jack leaned closer to his baby with the same smile as his wife, “She’s the most beautiful thing in the world, apart from you.” He kissed Genevieve’s crown, “Well done, my love.”

Genevieve closed her already drooping eyelids and sighed as she rocked her baby back and forth gently. Then her rocking slowed to a stop and she slipped back into the pillows. A huff escaped her and it pulled up her smile. But just as she started to wind down her discomfort, the baby started squirming in the blankets, her face screwing up. 

“Ginny, she’s waking up,” Jack said with hushed excitement. Genevieve lifted her head as the baby’s wrinkled face relaxed. Rubbing her cheek, she lazily opened two gorgeous blue eyes – Jack’s eyes - and peered up at them with tired wonder.

“Hello,” Jack brushed his hand over the blanket, taking one of his hands and holding her starfish hand. It closed tightly around his forefinger and Jack started to sob before pressing a kiss against her fingers.

“Hello, love,” Genevieve turned her head to avoid crying on her baby, wiping her sodden cheeks on Jack’s sleeves, “You’ve got me going again, you idiot. I love you.”

“I love you too, Ginny,” Jack slipped his arms around her, also crying uncontrollably, “And we love you too, Baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Pregnancy complications and implied death


	38. New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s her baby’s first day in the world. Genevieve and Jack are too tired to celebrate it. For better or for worse, no one else is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you for bearing with, taking a while to write these

Upon the midwives’ return, they found Genevieve in uneasiness. But that emotion was being tipped off the scales by the comfort she felt holding her baby. When she passed the child over to Jack, there was an emptiness in her chest that distracted her from listening to the midwife about passing a blood clot. Genevieve’s eyes stayed on him. He was still crying with a close-lipped smile as he cradled his daughter for the first time. What a feeling, that passed between the couple while they watched their baby interact with them. Years of waiting for such a moment.  

There were more tears to come when it came to injecting inoculations into the newborn. Leaning back into the pillows, Genevieve did not strain to watch for she was too tired. But she could hear the wailing perfectly well; it made her cower into her bed. Such a heart-breaking noise, the baby did not yet understand how to cry.

“Oh darling, I know, I know! It’s awful,” Jack spoke to the baby the entire time and held her hand while the midwife prepared the final injection, “It’ll be over soon, just one more.”

The moment it was over, he scooped her up into his arms and consoled her. She felt so tiny against him, his hand covering her back completely. Her frame shook, her face red until, back in Genevieve’s arms, her gulping came to a stop.

“There we go,” She kissed the baby’s head twice and the calm that washed over the pair would only ever be known by them.

And whilst both Baby Collins and Genevieve were declared healthy by the midwives, Jack dashed downstairs to ring everyone he could - without a care for the fact that it was the early hours of the morning. The Collins’, the Hastings’, Farrier’s landline, Jack was busy ringing all he knew. He had to be quick because, every time someone answered the phone, he would start to cry a little more, until only one phrase was uttered down the receiver:

“I’ve got a baby girl. We’ve got our baby girl.”

Once he’d dragged the crib into their room, a lot of Jack’s night was spent laid beside Genevieve as she slept. She had not wanted to sleep, but her eyes were drooping and body slouching as she protested against the idea of getting rest. The baby was taken to bed, and every ten minutes or so, Jack would stand and sit down next to the crib to keep an eye on the child in there. Somehow, she was still ready to sleep despite arriving a few hours ago mid-nap.

At some point in the night, he rested his head beside Genevieve’s hand and woke up with the shock that three hours had passed. Instantly he made to check on Genevieve (still asleep and fine). He peeked over the cot next in hopes of not disturbing the occupant. The tiny baby was awake now and carefully turned her head to look around. Her arms were enfolded into the blankets, so she couldn’t free herself. It was not a fight to stretch, more a test to learn about her body in this new world. Jack met her curious stare with a small smile.

“Hello,” He whispered, “Do you remember me? I was talking to you while you were in your Ma’s tummy. I gotta hold you after you got your nasty injections.”

The baby licked her lips then tilted her head back slightly, her eyes taking in the ceiling instead of her daddy’s face. She made little noises as she moved, her breathing blending with some gurgling.

With shaking arms, Jack lifted her against his chest. He beamed as she wriggled into him. She smelt delightful. It was not something he could put into words, but she just did. Jack then realised perhaps he should have put on a shirt first as he spied it strewn over the bed’s edge. Contemplating on what he should do now, he looked to the baby who had closed her eyes again but left her tongue poking out between her lips.

Eventually he decided to take her for a walk, showing off her new room, the presents that people had bought her, and the poster that was in it. He stroked the bear’s paw across her cheek then quietly described the time he took Genevieve to see the real  _Sunflowers._  When her eyes were open, the baby looked mostly at Jack as he spoke. Very polite of her.

“You shoulda seen your Ma in that moment. I hope the paintings come back one day so we can show you too,” Jack said as they headed downstairs, his voice raising a little more once out of earshot of the bedroom. “You have lovely eyelashes. Didn’t think you’d have grown them yet but there they are.”

Once the lower floor had been explored with all its limited interest, Jack stepped into the garden with the baby held in one arm so that he could shield her eyes from the rising sun. A new day. It was a little chilly for him, but the baby seemed content in her blankets even as they loosened, with her fingers bending and straightening around her new blanket. Crisp spring air renewed his energy, the dewy grass soaking his slippers. The flowers were all thriving that year. Bending down slightly, he picked one taller cosmos and showed it to the baby.

“I told you about these. I bet I’ll have to tell you again,” He said with a smile. The flower bounced about on its stem and the early morning breeze, its petals caressing the baby’s nose. She stared at it, mouth open, after which she sneezed. Her arms flung out in front of her, her legs kicking forward with effort in the blanket.

“Oh dear! Bless you,” Jack beamed for it was such an adorable sound. But then the baby began coughing out her cries, her face contorting to screw up her delicate features.

“Darling, it’s ok,” Jack shushed, lifting her closer so that he could kiss her head, “It’s just a little flower, it won’t hurt you anymore.” He took a seat on the bench and cuddled her closer in his chest. Not that he realised, but he swayed in his seat as he continued to talk to her, to calm her down as her cries muffling into quiet against his shoulder.

“I know, oh I know, everything’s all new to you. God, you’ve never sneezed before. What must be going on in your little head?” Jack sighed, glancing behind him as if to see through the wall where Genevieve was. Then he looked back down at the baby, her arms hardly reaching above her head, blinking up at him with a crumpled pout. As gently as possible, he lowered her back into his lap, one hand under her head, and kept his face close so she could see him sniffing as he felt a tear slip past his notice:

“Sorry, love, I’m a bit emotional right now too.” The baby seemed to listen to him now and began to interrupt with a hum or two, her way of telling him it was ok: “I’m not gonna fill your mind with that kind of thing. God, you’re so small, I feel like I gotta beat everything off with a bat. I was never really great at cricket.”

Jack trimmed the stem of the accused flower to a significantly shorter length and tucked it over her left ear. “Maybe your Ma can teach us. She had the right idea, bowled me and Ethel into the ground last summer.” The infant didn’t complain at the flower or after her bare feet slipped out the end of the blanket. In fact, she seemed to find it enjoyable when Jack played with one of them, pinching lightly her toes.

“That was one hell of a tangent. But you’re really helping Da out here.”

The sun warmed them both. Jack carefully unfolded the blanket to rest on her tummy, her arms flapping weakly in front of her as she practised movement. Meanwhile, Jack ceased conversation to watch her, fascinated with her learning, and unconsciously he leaned even closer to her. Her hands reached up to his temples as he kissed her belly. Under his lips, she tensed and shifted. Jack sensed that she might want to cry again, and he felt for her; feeling her skin against his incited such an intimate feeling he was not prepared for. It made him tear up again.

“Shall we go see if Ginny is awake, your Ma?” He whispered, his nose lightly bumping hers as she tried to move her head. Rocking carefully as he ascended the stairs, Jack soothed the baby’s grizzling. Her face did not connote one of positivity.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me,” He whispered. Though her funny little expression remained, the baby quietened down (beside from an occasional noise), something Jack rewarded with a kiss on her head. “There we go, baby girl. Hey, guess what? I love you. You’re my little girl, and I love you. I’m always gonna be here for you. Your Ma too.”

At the door, Jack gently pushed into the room, looking for whether his wife was asleep. She was not. Genevieve was wide awake and sat up in bed, clutching her bed sheets in tight fists.

“I heard her crying,” She looked at the blanket with an expression of mild terror.

“It’s ok; she just got a little scared by her sneeze.” Jack passed her over and Genevieve carefully checked over her, eyes darting across every part of her baby to see if there was truly nothing wrong. Her hand moved aside the blankets and traced over the baby’s skin.  She spotted the flower still behind the baby’s ear then moved on. She found a splodge on the baby’s wrist that the midwives had informed her about then moved on. She landed on the baby’s tummy and stopped.

“She’s got a belly button,” was her conclusion.

“A cute belly button,” said Jack in agreement.

Genevieve thumbed over the baby’s cheekbone as she slowly moved her head to look around. It dislodged the cosmo, landing it beside Genevieve’s thigh. But she didn’t try to replace it. She was already occupied, taking in the weight in her arms.

“I never wanna let her go,” She whispered, not looking at Jack though she was speaking to him. Pulling her close, Genevieve took a deep breath and rubbed her cheek to the baby’s head.

When she let out a noise that sounded like she was about to cry, immediately Jack and Genevieve tensed, ready for action to do whatever they could to calm her. But the baby took matters into her own hands. Literally. She grabbed onto the baggy front of Genevieve’s nightshirt and whined.

“I think you might be hungry.”

Jack stayed at their sides as Genevieve fed their daughter for the first time. It was weirdly mesmerising to watch how quickly she adapted to becoming a mother. Even Genevieve was surprised by herself, the words of the midwife and instinct guiding her actions. Her eyes fixated on the baby’s wispy hair, her hand stroking it. Despite the minor discomfort, Genevieve felt her face softened with a smile as she clicked her tongue and spoke, the baby’s blinking slowed down and with a hand curled at her mother’s chest.

Forgetting that he was meant to get breakfast for his wife, Jack was completely in awe. Once reminded, he sped downstairs to make it and returned with a few minutes, not wanting to miss a moment. The tray rattled louder than he wanted as he placed it on the floor.

“Oh, finished already?” Genevieve whispered as she lifted up her daughter, “All full?”

“Can I burp her?” Jack asked, already reaching for the muslin rag. He just had to hold her again.

“You’re volunteering for her to be sick on you?” She joked, before nodding at him to come over.

Eagerly, Jack took a seat beside her on the bed and carefully arranged himself to hold his daughter. Genevieve did a little intervening, making sure he held her properly, before falling back into her pillows and watching them with half-closed eyes. The baby whimpered a little at the movement before she settled into regular breathing. Jack gently rubbed circles into her back then lightly patted between her tiny shoulders. He felt obligated to kiss her little head again after he held his nose to smell that freshness about her. Then he heard a wet sounding belch.

“There we go.” He patted her back once more then lifted her into his lap to wipe her mouth properly. The baby coughed, wincing away from the rag, and Jack anxiously sat her up in his chest to pat her back again. When she stopped, Jack looked at Genevieve, clearly grinning over the mug of tea.

“You’re so good with her,” and she sipped from the mug.  The novelty of the mint tea was wearing thin against her tongue, but she didn’t tell Jack just yet. Still feeling the fatigue, she replaced the mug beside her and adjusted her posture until she was almost flat on her back. Jack lowered the baby onto her chest, the head beneath Genevieve’s lips that grimaced at the sight of a splodge of sick on Jack’s shirt shoulder.

The doorbell was heard and thus began a steady flow of people coming in to visit Genevieve and make sure she was alright. First visitor was surprisingly Farrier. He arrived in the early morning with flowers, Westley, and a bottle of whiskey - to make up for being stood up the night before. Nervously he stood in the doorway of the bedroom as Genevieve waved weakly from her bed. A toast was made to the pair – although they opted to go for tea instead of alcohol at eight in the morning.

Farrier didn’t stay in the room for long, not even to get a closer look at the baby. But he did decide to stay to help out. While Jack assured him that it was fine for him to go if he had plans, Farrier was already prepping to do some chores downstairs.

“Besides, I haven’t been in your gaff before. Give me a chance to explore,” He winked before heading to the kitchen to do the washing up left from the previous day. Westley followed him, his tongue hanging out. It was with profusive thanks that Jack followed and shook Farrier’s hand. His help was going to be needed if he was to spend the day looking after his wife and his baby. 

His  _wife_  and his  _baby_. 

It almost didn’t feel real. In a daze, he rung up his place of work and informed them of his newfound status as a father. Then he went to open the door which was already knocking again.

“LET ME SEE THE BAIRN!”

Breezing into the house, Cora had kissed both his cheeks briefly before bellowing this demand again, running past and up the stairs. Jack proceeded to greet the rest of his family a little more calmly and allowed them indoors.

Genevieve heard Cora from her room upstairs. She snorted pathetically as she climbed back under the covers, her eye on the cot still. The softness of the room was incongruous to when Cora appeared in the doorway, frenzied with wild hair until her eyes too landed on the cot. Then she eased up into grandmother mode and dropped at Genevieve’s side.

“I’m so glad you’re alright, Genevieve.” Back to the baby, she bent over to see the child sleeping peacefully despite the disruptions. Her entire face stretched in utter elation as she was overcome with her first grandchild.

“Oh, she’s the bonniest thing! Look at that nose, just like you when you were this size.” Cora patted Jack’s arm in recognition, but without tearing her eyes from the cot.

The rest of the Collins clan popped up in the doorway, trying not to overwhelm the family. Cora began to commandeer those with her, ordering everyone to the side of the room so that the new parents could awaken the baby in peace before providing the opportunity to hold her.

Karen and Ethel went up first, insisting no one would get a turn holding the baby if Cora went before anyone else. They took turns, with Toby and Jack leaning over their shoulders. The four siblings watched the baby breathe slowly, falling back to sleep in her auntie’s arms only to be woken when being passed to another person. She barely cried though, for she could hear Genevieve talking nearby to her in-laws. There was recognition there and in the smell of the blanket that the baby was wrapped in, the same blanket Genevieve had slept with it for the past few weeks. Familiarity filled the room and the baby was good as gold for the Collins.

When it came to Cora’s turn, she paced up and down the room whilst playing with one of the baby’s hands. Her husband followed her about with his body in a crooked position so that he could see his granddaughter. The siblings were downstairs with Jack and Farrier, though what they were up to Genevieve had no idea.

“When will she be able to wear those clothes, the ones she got for Christmas?” He asked as he took a break, Cora continuing to move about the room.

“Not for a long time,” Genevieve sighed into her mug of tea, “She’s got some growing to do first.”

It would take some time, but Cora would eventually stop her drill marches and settled on the end of the bed. She didn’t speak so much then, at least not until she and Genevieve were alone in the bedroom. Her husband had gone to check on his kids (”make sure they’re behavin’ themselves”).

That was when Cora said quietly, “We’re so glad you’re alright, you and the baby. After everything that happened. Might I suggest ‘Cora’?”

Appreciating the lack of focus on “what happened”, Genevieve wiped her nose on the corner of her blanket and answered, “You might, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be chosen for her name.” And the pair shared a smile, knowing full well that Cora was not to be the name of the bairn.

“Might as well throw my hat into the ring.”

With kisses on everyone’s cheeks, especially the baby’s, Jack waved his family goodbye at lunch time, which when Genevieve’s family arrived. A five-minute exchange, the Hastings’ appeared with more muted joy for the baby. Except for two people.

Beryl peeked at her granddaughter and had to take a moment outside the room, weeping into her handkerchief. James on the other hand leapt onto the bed to meet his cousin. Lilly followed, though with more control than her son. She climbed beside Genevieve on the bed, and the sisters sat together.

“You remember when James was just a baby?” Lilly touched her forefinger to the baby’s head.

With a slow nod, Genevieve said, “I was scared of him.”

James cocked his head in confusion, “Scared of me?” Then he began laughing uproariously at the idea. Contrary to popular belief, in James’ eyes, she wasn’t scared of anything. It wasn’t long before Genevieve joined in.

“Yeah, you were so tiny, I was scared to hurt you,” She explained through her laughter. Once settled, she finished: “And now look at you, big boy.”

When it came to his turn, Tony - Genevieve’s father - cradled the baby with such care, as if he were destined to hold her. 

“A strong and healthy little girl, just like her mother,” He said quietly, kneeling down so that James could see her too. It reminded Genevieve of one of the few photos in her family home: Tony sat in his ancient arm chair, holding a baby Genevieve with Lilly sat at his side, looking over with a screwed-up expression at her baby sister. He even kissed the baby’s fist that was enclosed about his finger.

Evidently the baby didn’t like the feel of his moustache and began to snivel, the start of a crying fit. Genevieve held out her hands and instantly the baby was placed back with her. Tucking her blanket back around her, Genevieve consoled her down to a whimper.

“That’s a good girl,” She said with a kiss. She liked kissing the baby; her hair felt all fuzzy.

When the baby was calmed, Genevieve looked to her fidgeting nephew. He was staring still at the bundle in her arms. His hands were wriggling his fingers together, his body bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Would you like to hold her, James?”

The question was barely out in the air, but James was already atop the bed again, with his arms outstretched for his cousin. The adults of the room were nervous. James himself assured that he was a big boy now, his legs swinging. Genevieve carefully helped him to carry his cousin with Lilly sat beside him to steady him.

“She’s heavy,” He said, though it was more of a statement rather than a complaint. But he was smiling, the whole time, and he didn’t stop. Not even as he passed back the baby, not even as he left with his parents.

More and more visitors came and went: friends from Genevieve’s workplace, Jack’s RAF mates, random cousins and the like. More to meet the new member of the Collins family but they brought gifts and they were quiet, so that was acceptable.

But there came a time – specifically three in the afternoon – that Genevieve was tired of speaking and just wanted to sleep. She was too hot, too stiff, too exhausted to see anyone else. So, she kicked the blankets off pathetically and seized her opportunity while the baby had a nap. Didn’t take long to join her in slumber.

She woke up, hardly refreshed but her baby was hungry and making sure that  _everyone_  knew about it.

“I guess my schedule revolves around you now,” She mumbled to the crying baby as Jack entered and passed her to her Ma.

There was a knock at the door just as Baby Collins finished feeding. Preparing to burp her again, Genevieve granted both Jack and an anxious Farrier entry. Forearms damp from washing up, Farrier sat awkwardly at Genevieve’s side and watched the baby resting in her Ma’s arms.

“Do you want to hold her?” Jack asked, tucking the rest of his sleeve in the fold at the elbow.

The poor man started spluttering but Genevieve was already holding the baby out, “Farrier, I need the bathroom; please take her.”

Not wanting to argue with the lady, Farrier wiped his arms down his jumper. He clumsily organised his arms into a cradle and accepted the frowning baby. He swallowed hard, looking helplessly at Jack. In silence, Jack helped Farrier to coordinate his arms in a more comfortable way for his friend and his daughter. Then he moved over to Genevieve, carefully helping her out of bed and walking her to the bathroom. Her limp was rather prominent, a sharp spike up her leg, but she gritted her teeth and kept walking.

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” Jack whispered to Genevieve.

She snorted as the door to the bathroom was opened to her, “He better be. Unless he fancies getting in here. I’ll be fine too.”

She held up a hand to signal that Jack should not follow her into the bathroom and closed the door on him. Despite wanting to check in on Farrier, Jack remained outside the bathroom door in case Genevieve needed anything.

Genevieve was indeed fine, half smiling at Jack’s indecisiveness when she heard his nails tapping against the door handle. She took a breather, sitting on the toilet and leaning against her folded arms on her knees. She still felt too warm. It was a stale feeling that hung about her head. But it was good to have a moment of peace. Sitting up, she stretched and felt many cracks in her back snapping the further she reached.

The stale feeling was still there after she finished her business by washed her hands then splashed cold water on her face. Genevieve prepared a flannel under the tap. It was welcomed with a sigh of relief on the back of her neck. 

Jack took her arm again as soon as she stepped from the bathroom. He turned in time to catch Genevieve in a hug. The flannel dripped excess water onto his shoulder but Genevieve barely noticed. Her breathing soothed into deep intakes. He was a little sweaty, but a) she knew she smelt worse and b) he would always be her favourite smell because it was the only warmth that she loved, rocking her from side to side with a hand in her hair, a shoulder to lean on, and no space between them.

“Want me to carry you?” She felt his words buzz against her ear.

“I’m a bit sore for that but thank you. Some toast would be nice though.”

She felt that giddiness he gave her when he walked her back into bed. Once back in, she left the blankets off and placed the flannel folded behind her head. 

When Jack was out of the way after a kiss on her forehead, Genevieve saw that Baby Collins was still glaring up at the stranger holding her, her lips smacking slowly and her arms hitting his jacket as they came loose from the swaddled blankets she was in. Farrier looked genuinely worried that he’d upset her but, paralysed by that worry, he did not move.

“You alright?” Genevieve prompted, almost smug from her leisurely place on the bed.

It took a moment for Farrier to register her question, for the baby was taking all his concentration. But he managed to get out: “She’s staring at me.”

“Yeah, she’s never seen you before,” Genevieve smirked, “And you’ve got a funny looking face.”

“Oh, I’m wounded,” But Genevieve heard the smile in Farrier’s words and saw his stiff back had begun to relax. Jack appeared over his shoulder, looking at the baby who was waving one of her arms at him. Such an image led Jack to decide: now was a good time to ask a question much-discussed between himself and Genevieve.

“Ginny and I were thinking; the baby would love a funny looking face such as yours to be her godfather.”

Farrier looked as though he was about to drop the baby in shock, finally looking up at his friends. “Really?”

Genevieve hummed from the bed and Jack concurred, speaking on her behalf as she began to doze off, “You’re a big part of our lives, Edward. We want you to be a big part in hers too.”

It was rare that Jack would use Farrier’s first name. Genevieve even acclimatised to that and used his surname in conversation with and in reference to the man. He seemed to find it difficult to process this, instead looking at the baby. She looked back and finally she seemed to stop frowning. 

With a sniff and a swallow, Farrier said in a strangely soft voice, “I won’t let you down, either of you.”

He left shortly after that and was very emotional about saying goodbye to his soon-to-be goddaughter. After the day spent at the house, he had plucked up the nerve to kiss her, his lips grazing her forehead which wrinkled in response as she yawned. No one brought up that his eyes were very misty as he departed. Westley sprinted out the front door and leapt at his side, leaving the house quiet once again. 

Jack stayed downstairs for a little bit, said he had some thinking to do and some toast to be making, and gave Genevieve some space with the baby. She was grateful for this alone time. Lying down properly, she rested with her baby in her chest. The baby was awake, pressing her cheek into Genevieve’s nightshirt as her mother stroked across her back and held her little hand. It rested over the scar on her shoulder.

“Are you worn out?” Genevieve mumbled, “Me too. All these new people coming to say hello, it’s tiring isn’t it?”

She pressed her lips against the baby and whispered, “It’s scary but I think I’ll love you no matter what. Like Jack, your dad, and I hope we can tell you all about it, so you know you’re loved, unconditionally.”

Her hand was so much larger than the baby’s. It encompassed her whole arm, a chubby little limb that was so soft. The thumb carefully turned the baby’s wrist around to show to Genevieve the birthmark that had grown darker over the day: a little blob in the same spot as her mother’s.

“Look at that, we match.” Her voice cracked at that and she admitted aloud to the pair of them, “I’ve fallen for you so fast.”

They were both quiet for a while, not sleeping but sitting in each other’s company. With vases of new flowers about them, a breeze through the window, Genevieve felt calmer than she had in the last few weeks. She knew it wouldn’t last for long, so she embraced it as she embraced her child. 

When she did speak, it was hushed, “We still have to give you a name. I wish you could have a say in this, tell me what you like. What to call you…”

Genevieve mulled over the options she’d found in a baby name book browsed months before, ones she’d talked to the bump about, “I’m still not sure. You don’t look like a Peggy or a Connie or a Freya. Freya means ‘lady’ too and your Daddy already has that problem with his name.” Then she sniggered to herself, “‘Man Son of Collin’, imagine having that for a name. You’re gonna have a really cool name, like me, your Mummy.”

The baby exhaled loudly and unbent her arms, shaking inside Genevieve’s gentle grip.

“Yeah, that’s my hand. Nice to meet you… Stella. I like Stella. What do you think? For your name, I mean. I told you about it before. Because you’re a bright star in my Starry Night. I know your Da told you about it, it’s all he’d do at night when I was pretending to sleep. He’s a Sunflower, I love sunflowers but he likes cosmos more. I was gonna plant some sunflowers this month, they say to plant them in April, grow in three months. They’ll be taller than you in no time.”

All between her words, Genevieve heard the baby gurgle. She liked to think they were in conversation.  

“Not that we need more flowers, it’s like a botanical garden in here!” She said as Jack brought in another bouquet from downstairs.

“You don’t seem to mind, spending all day looking after flowers,” he arranged the bunch into another vase.

“That’s a retirement plan, not a career.”

“Right,” He smirked as he delicately arranged the bouquet into one of their jugs. Once satisfied, he plucked two carnations from it and trimmed the stems. Tucking one behind Genevieve’s ear, he swept his hand over her head and around to touch her cheek. He fell over with controlled care to make eye contact with the babe, “Hello, Baby Collins.”

Then he tried to do the same with the baby. There was little success. The flower was too big. Another reason why cosmos were better. Still, he brushed the petal across her rosebud lips and tucked it behind his own ear. This earned a smile from Genevieve who was pleased as punch that they matched. Jack lay down beside them, his hand joining Genevieve’s in running their fingertips across the baby’s back before he played with one of her feet again. It flexed in his hand, soft as anything, with toes tinier than his smallest knuckle.

“I guess we can’t call her Cosmos or Star,” He mumbled.

Laughing weakly, Genevieve brushed her daughter’s wispy hair with the back of her forefinger, “Cosmos Collins? No chance, not even as a middle name.”

“Sunny, short for Sunflower?”

She shook her head.

“What about naming her after your Ma?”

“Mm-mmm, and not after your mother either, even though she asked. Baby and I were actually thinking about Stella. ’S Latin, for Star.”

“Stella for Star,” Jack tested out, rolling the letters about his mouth to see how they fell off the tongue. Said enough times for the word to nearly lose all meaning, Jack turned back to his daughter, “You seem to like it, don’t you? Well, hello there, Stella.”

Genevieve laughed again, weaker still, “You keep saying hello to the baby.”

“I keep saying  _hello_  to  _Stella,_ my  _daughter_ ,” Jack said, his grin widening as he spoke. The pair shared a giggle as he continued to talk to Stella, “Better that your Ma makes the decisions, she’s a smart one.”

When Genevieve went to sit up, Jack swooped in instantly, cupping the back of Stella’s head and under her bum to rest her in his shoulder. He noticed that Genevieve did not stay sat up for long, already sliding back down after sipping some water. So as not to strain her neck, he took a seat on the bed beside her.

“For the middle name, d’you know what ‘blancmange’ is in Latin?”

“You know what, Jack?” Genevieve lifted an eyebrow and Jack knew that, despite giving birth not twenty-four hours ago, she would verbally beat him in their quips. “Did you have another idea?”

He fidgeted with Stella’s blanket, adjusting it around her middle, “Still think that blancmange is a viable option, but I had another in mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm.”

After a substantial silence, Genevieve prompted the reluctant Jack, “Well? Go on then.”

“… I also like Josie.”

And all sound suddenly became muffled.

Ears plugged, mind dizzy, Genevieve vaguely heard Jack’s explanation that it was short for Josephine but that he liked Josie as a whole name over the ringing. With a blankly vulnerable expression, she felt her eyes welling up at the mention of her old girlfriend. Such an impact was expected from his words, but it still took her time to realise that Jack was waiting to hear her response. 

“Are you serious?” and there was a crack in her voice.

A little thrown off by the question and its tone despite his best preparations, Jack cautiously continued, “Hmm. I mean it’s only fair since we nearly named her after Farrier. I just think it would’ve been nice to know. Get some closure.” Such closure Jack was lucky to get with Farrier. He had moved on.

Genevieve looked down at her hands, empty, and sniffed loudly before drawing a pillow from behind her to clasp it in her chest.

“I don’t think that’s the sort of closure I need,” She said quietly, pressing her mouth into the pillow.

Jack avoided looking at Genevieve. He could feel his neck and ears filling with a red shame. Part of him knew perhaps he should have waited. The two days had been so taxing on her mentally, this was probably the last thing he needed. Swallowing, he instead glanced at Stella who was slowly falling to sleep.

He spoke quickly, already stood up, “I think she needs to change into her pyjamas. I’ll do the honours, don’t worry.”

Whisking her away to the changing mat on the floor, Jack kept his eyes trained on Stella. Her legs refused to straighten, jerking sporadically. The carnation that had been behind Jack’s ear had fallen to her right cheek, the petal gentle in its contact.

“Sleepy?” He asked quietly as Stella yawned with tremendous effort, “You and me both. Bet your Ma’s more tired though.”

While it took some time to settle in, Genevieve now felt the force of her comment’s connotations. She was upset that she’d embarrassed him so, not to mention the implication that closure she wanted contradicted what she had previously said on the matter. It was a lovely suggestion too, after the whole name betting with Farrier. Over the pillow, she spied her tags on the bedside table.  With care, she leant over, collected them, and wrapped the bootlace around her fingers, traced over the name engraved as part of the Big Six: COLLINS J. She thought about what Jack must have been like upon signing up, and the immense joy of finally getting his tags. Did he call his parents? Show off with his fellow trainees? Did they celebrate by going out to a pub, in their fresh blues? She’d never really asked about him just before the war. Baby to teenage years, yes, but never in his early twenties. Putting her pillow back behind her, Genevieve saved this question and its many tangents for another time.

Her finger stroked over her wedding ring on the bootlace, still awaiting their reunion. It made Genevieve let loose a tear at the thought of being able to wear it again. Jack did not see this, too busy adjusting Stella’s mittens so that she wouldn’t hurt herself while she slept.

“Bring her to me please,” Genevieve asked, her arms already outstretched while she sniffed.

That was when Jack spied his old tags tangled in her fingers. But he said nothing, lifting Stella over and into her mother’s care again. They watched as Stella rubbed her cheeks with the mittens with a yawn stretching her features.

Lowering herself back into the bed, Genevieve turned to her husband, “I knew you wanted another J. Collins in the house.” And she let out a wheeze at her little joke. Jack laughed along to pretend he knew what she meant, unsure about the variety in her behaviour. He only realised the weight of her words when she spoke again:

“Lucky for her, Stella Josie Collins has a nice ring to it. But I don’t think we should make a habit of naming our children after our first loves.”

A heavy sigh was the prologue of Jack’s second – and this time genuine – chuckle. His head dropped, his chin against his chest, shaking with relief that boiled over in his body. Seeing this as approval, Genevieve gestured for her husband to lie beside her again, which he did with mild exhaustion. There, she took his left hand to kiss his wedding ring, snugly tucked on the scar from when he gotten it trapped in a car door. Jack could only snuggle closer to her, turning on his side but still propped up.he kissed a spot on her neck, trying to hide that he was crying a fair bit. Jack sniffed, wiping a tear away in time for another to run down his cheek.

“I love you so.”

“I love you too.”

As Jack made a stronger attempt to stop crying, Genevieve watched him pull a face similar to the babe in her arms and let out a loud laugh. Her head fell back into the pillows as she muffled it to a snort before looking back down at Stella.

“She looks a bit concerned,” and the new parents leant together to catch their daughter’s eye, “Why’s your Da crying now? Hmm? Why’s he doing that, Stella?”

While she teased, Jack watched Stella’s frumpy face blinking up at him, slow as she began to doze off. He touched Stella’s cheek with curled fingers to be gentle on her skin.

“I’m being a silly boy, Stella. Worrying about nothing. Loving your everything.”


End file.
